When this film opened back in 1976, legend has that it was met with massive jeering and disdain --- it was widely considered a failure. I vividly remember Ebert giving it one star and it was supposedly booed at Cannes.
Apparently these people didn't understand the movie, which is not that hard to comprehend since it's very esoteric, dark, and layered in ways that still astound me. Reading through many of the reviews here I find (even after about 7-8 viewings over the years) many elements of the film I had previously glossed over. But even without understanding much the psychological underpinnings of the story, it's still a cracking suspenser...even if you just take the escalating paranoia and persecution that overtakes Polanski's title character like a tsunami wave over the course of it's two hour running time.
Examining the source material --- an excellent novella by underrated novelist Roland Topor --- uncovers more intriguing layers. Polanski's Trekovsky is a milquetoast of the highest order. Though he seems at first to be yet another mild everyday soul, one gradually realizes he is one of those people who seems to aimlessly drift through life, letting it direct him. He seems to have few strong feelings about his likes and dislikes. He finds himself gently pushed this way and that, but never seems to get too bent out of shape regardless. This vague sort of wishy-washy-ness is more noticeable in the novel than the movie, but there are hints of it early in the film too.
Making a play for the apartment of a woman, one Mademouiselle Choule, who is in the hospital recovering from a recent suicide attempt, appears to be the most daring thing he has attempted (even effectively haggling down the price of the deposit in the bargain). He soon finds, however, that he is paying for his "good thing" in more ways than he cares, as he finds himself in the center of maelstrom created by a building full of neurotic, control freaks who are hypersensitive to even the slightest sign of human life, such as a footstep in the night or a knock on the door.
Instead of taking a stand though, Trelkovsky becomes increasingly alienated by the situation, and overtaken by paranoia and a sense of persecution. He becomes obsessed with Choule, imagining himself to be like her, dressing like her, etc. as his own personality rapidly begins to be wiped away by his own insanity.
If anyone has ever doubted Polanski's fearlessness as an artist, they'd be well-advised to see this film. His trademark black humor is prominently (and sometimes embarrassingly) on display here and --- god bless him --- he makes himself the butt of it. It's a tour de force performance in one of the richest, riskiest, most Gothic horror movies ever made. That more people haven't seen it is a true crime.
Apparently these people didn't understand the movie, which is not that hard to comprehend since it's very esoteric, dark, and layered in ways that still astound me. Reading through many of the reviews here I find (even after about 7-8 viewings over the years) many elements of the film I had previously glossed over. But even without understanding much the psychological underpinnings of the story, it's still a cracking suspenser...even if you just take the escalating paranoia and persecution that overtakes Polanski's title character like a tsunami wave over the course of it's two hour running time.
Examining the source material --- an excellent novella by underrated novelist Roland Topor --- uncovers more intriguing layers. Polanski's Trekovsky is a milquetoast of the highest order. Though he seems at first to be yet another mild everyday soul, one gradually realizes he is one of those people who seems to aimlessly drift through life, letting it direct him. He seems to have few strong feelings about his likes and dislikes. He finds himself gently pushed this way and that, but never seems to get too bent out of shape regardless. This vague sort of wishy-washy-ness is more noticeable in the novel than the movie, but there are hints of it early in the film too.
Making a play for the apartment of a woman, one Mademouiselle Choule, who is in the hospital recovering from a recent suicide attempt, appears to be the most daring thing he has attempted (even effectively haggling down the price of the deposit in the bargain). He soon finds, however, that he is paying for his "good thing" in more ways than he cares, as he finds himself in the center of maelstrom created by a building full of neurotic, control freaks who are hypersensitive to even the slightest sign of human life, such as a footstep in the night or a knock on the door.
Instead of taking a stand though, Trelkovsky becomes increasingly alienated by the situation, and overtaken by paranoia and a sense of persecution. He becomes obsessed with Choule, imagining himself to be like her, dressing like her, etc. as his own personality rapidly begins to be wiped away by his own insanity.
If anyone has ever doubted Polanski's fearlessness as an artist, they'd be well-advised to see this film. His trademark black humor is prominently (and sometimes embarrassingly) on display here and --- god bless him --- he makes himself the butt of it. It's a tour de force performance in one of the richest, riskiest, most Gothic horror movies ever made. That more people haven't seen it is a true crime.