The Props of Polish Film

popiol_i_diament_kieliszki_fn.jpg, default, Zbigniew Cybulski & Adam Pawlikowski in the film ‘Ashes and Diamonds’, directed by Andrzej Wajda, 1958, photo: Wiesław Zdort / Film Studio Kadr / Nati

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What connects a straw teddy bear to the burning shot glasses from the film ‘Ashes and Diamonds’? Why were Kasia Figura’s hips enlarged, and how did an axe become Wojciech Smarzowski’s trademark? Here’s a short guide to the most important props of Polish cinema.

Although they can be easy to ignore, they’re more than just elements of a film set or the backdrop against which the fate of the protagonists plays out. Film objects are alive – they have their own energy, meanings, and networks of relationships. And they evoke associations and aid in creating moods. Sometimes they say more than a film dialogue can, and in the hands of some directors, they become powerful tools.

Wajda – detail & metaphor

For example, they were used by Andrzej Wajda – one of the masters of film symbols, who was able to utilise film props like no one else – as carriers of meanings. Wajda, a painter by education, knew the power of detail and how to exploit it.

In Ashes and Diamonds, he depicted a world of demolished values, showing a ruined church with a figure of Christ hanging upside down. He portrayed the post-war reality in one image. It was he who made the white horse an ambiguous figure of freedom and death in his film, and in The Birch Wood, he turned an orange into a symbol of vital energy breaking into a dead world, after the story by Iwaszkiewicz. When in his farewell film – Afterimage – he wanted to show the hero stifled by communist ideology, he filmed soldiers covering windows with a huge red cloth that had Stalin’s image on it. The prop became a symbol and a way of describing the hero’s condition.

But the most powerful film symbols came from his early work. It is impossible to imagine the history of Polish cinema without the bar scene from Ashes and Diamonds, in which shot glasses filled with alcohol were set on fire and turned into candles commemorating those who died during the war. ‘Haneczka, Wilga, Kosobudzki, Rudy, Kajtek’ – the names of deceased friends, and the bar ‘candles’ forever became a symbol of memory as well a sign of death. Interestingly, in The Crowned-Eagle Ring, Wajda again used this metaphor, citing the scene with the burning shot glasses – but it didn’t have even a fraction of the on-screen strength that can be felt in the scene from Ashes and Diamonds.

A blinding promise

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Still from the film ‘Canal’, directed by Andrzej Wajda, 1956, photo: Polflim / East News

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Conceived of by Janusz Morgenstern, Wajda’s assistant at that time, the flaming shot glasses became one of the most characteristic visual elements associated with the master’s work. Not the only one though – two years earlier, in Canal, Wajda created a scene which, thanks to the skilful use of a prop, became one of the most notable in his work.

Its hero, apart from two young Warsaw insurgents, is a grate preventing an exit from the city sewers. In the final scene of Canal, a young liaison officer (Teresa Iżewska) escorts a wounded soldier (Tadeusz Janczar), and with the rest of their strength, they make their way through the underground corridors of the canals leading to the River Wisła. In the end, they see the light – a symbol of hope, but on the way to their freedom and salvation, there was a large metal grate, outside of which you could see the opposite side of the river.

Under Wajda, it became a political sign. The protagonists didn’t have to say a word – the audience read Wajda’s intention flawlessly. Like him, they knew that during the insurgent events described by Wajda, Soviet troops stood on the other bank of the River Wisła, passively watching the slaughter of the city. Thus, the grating separating the city sewers from the river in the film scene became the border between life and death – and the final scene a political and historical indictment.

‘Two Men and a Wardrobe’

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Still from the film ‘Two Men and a Wardrobe’, directed by Roman Polański, 1958, photo: PWSFTviT in Łódź

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For the artists of the Polish Film School generation, trained in painting and classically educated, artistic detail often became a carrier of additional meanings, and film objects were more than just mere elements of decoration. In Wojciech Has’s later films, props created a network of references and an intertextual game space on the screen. In the film Ręce do Góry (Hands Up!), Skolimowski named the protagonists after car brands (from Wartburg to Alfa Romeo) to describe their personalities and life aspirations.

The symbolic power of the film prop was also used by Roman Polański. It’s enough to mention his most famous short film – Two Men and a Wardrobe. The story of two men carrying the titular object in Polański’s short film becomes into a parable about tolerance. Rejected and attacked by society, the two wretches traverse the seaside city, only to finally sink into the sea with the piece of furniture they were carrying. In the surreal plot, Polański created one of the most famous symbols of Polish cinema. And this wasn’t the last time that he ‘animated’ film objects – the latter also appears in his full-length debut Knife in the Water, in which the boat in the film turns into an arena of struggle between youth and maturity, rebellion and opportunism.

The camera as mirror

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Jerzy Stuhr in the film ‘Amator’, directed by Krzysztof Kieślowski, 1979, photo: Studio Filmowe Tor / National Film Archive – Audiovisual Institute / www.fototeka.fn.org.pl

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Camera Buff by Krzysztof Kieślowski, 1979, in the photo: Jerzy Stuhr, photo: The National Film Archive / en.fn.org.pl

While Polański treated the glass on the wardrobe as a mirror reflecting the brutal image of Polish society, for the master of the next generation, the camera was an even better-suited tool of social criticism. I am talking about Krzysztof Kieślowski, one of those Polish artists who mastered the use of props as material for building new meanings.

But with Kieślowski, the object lost its metaphorical power. More so, it became an element of the fictional story, fuelling it – not commenting as often. This is especially visible in the TV series Decalogue – in the first part, the home computer is an embodiment of rationalism. In the superb fourth part, a letter left by a deceased woman becomes the starting point for a dangerous psychological game between a father and his daughter. And in the last part, stamp collecting divides two people who were close.

Occasionally, Kieślowski’s props became equal heroes of the story – for example, the film camera from the autobiographical Camera Buff. Through a story about a young filmmaker-enthusiast, the director told the story of the filmmakers of his generation – presenting a fascination with cinema, censorship and the involvement of politics. The scene in which Filip Mosz (played by Jerzy Stuhr) turns the camera lens towards himself is perhaps the most intimate and personal in Kieślowski’s oeuvre. ‘If you want to describe the world, you must start with yourself’, said Kieślowski – and in subsequent films, following Mosz’s example, he more and more courageously focused the camera’s eye on himself.

Cinema-machine – the curse of J.J. Kolski

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Cinema-machine & Bartosz Opania in ‘Historia Kina w Popielawach’ (The History of Cinema in Popielawy), directed by Jakub Kolski, 1998, photo: TVP archive / Forum

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Jan Jakub Kolski also turned out to be a true master in using film props, including self-referential ones. In his film Szabla od Komendanta (The Commander’s Sword), the titular object acts as a symbol of a glorious past as well as a sign of commitment, while in the more recent Ułaskawienie (Pardon), the coffin beccomes a symbol of the loss that the heroes face.

But the most important of the film props present in Kolski’s films is ... the cinema-machine, which is actually one of the main characters in his Historia Kina w Popielawach (History of Cinema in Popielawy). In this dark film fairytale, Kolski tells the story of a cinematic invention – a cinema-machine, created even before the Lumière brothers’s one – with which all members of the hero’s family are obsessed.

In Historia Kina w Popielawach, Kolski – who comes from a family of filmmakers and cinema enthusiasts – faced family myths and presented cinema as both a curse and a blessing. The machine, created by the film’s heroes, brings misfortunes upon them, but at the same time, it holds the promise of surpassing one’s own mortality. It’s no coincidence that one of the most essential scenes in the film is one in which one of the heroes records the dance of a beloved woman on film, thus making her immortal. Because in Kolski’s work, the cinema-machine is more than an object – it is an object of love, and also a tool for expressing it.

A teddy bear made to the best of our abilities

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Still from the film ‘Miś’, directed by Stanisław Bareja, 1980, photo: Zebra Film Studio / National Film Archive – Audiovisual Institute / www.fototeka.fn.org.pl

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Even though Polish cinema usually treats props with the seriousness they deserve, it also happens that they can end up being part of a comedy. Polish comedies are full of iconic props – from the scissors in Zezowate Szczęście (Bad Luck), which haunt the protagonist, to the famous pear sweater in Chłopaki nie Płaczą (Boys Don’t Cry). But amid all these comedy props, the king is Teddy Bear – which involves a teddy bear made to the best of our abilities, considering the circumstances.

It’s hard to believe that the film managed to escape the attention of political censors. In the cult comedy by Stanisław Bareja, the titular teddy bear (Miś) made of straw-mulch had a considerable political dimension. The monstrous puppet hovering over Warsaw was for some a symbol of the Soviet Union, for others – a personification of the absurdities of the communist era.

The filmmakers commissioned it to be produced in Cepelia (Headquarters of the Folk and Artistic Industry), and effigies of at least five different sizes were made for the film. And rightly so, because while shooting, one of them accidentally fell into a clay pit, over which a scene with a helicopter was being shot.

This straw teddy bear, which became one of the most famous comedy props in Polish cinema, came close to never appearing on the screen at all. During the pre-release review, communist commissioners tried to censor Bareja’s film. The fact that the film finally hit theatres was actually due to a coincidence of political circumstances. After a change of power, the new governing body saw Miś as a way to critique Gierek’s bygone era, and for themselves – a chance to show that the new government would be more liberal.

Kasia Figura’s hips

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Katarzyna Figura in the film ‘Kingsajz’, directed by Juliusz Machulski, 1987, photo: Polfim / East News

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The gigantic straw teddy bear is not the only majestic prop from the Polish cinema of the 1980s. Eight years after Bareja’s film, another feature film appeared on the screens that would be written into the history of Polish set design forever. This is the film Kingsajz (Kingsize) by Juliusz Machulski, a story about dwarves living in the mysterious kingdom of Szuflandia.

In telling the story of this allegorical fairy tale, Machulski really challenged his colleagues when it came to the film’s realisation. He had to show miniaturised heroes without the use of CGI. Instead of artificially reducing the actors, Machulski decided to instead enlarge the world around them. A number of large props, reproduced in a 20:1 scale, were made for the needs of Kingsajz. In the Sandomierz glassworks, a two-meter glass was made, and the propmakers also had to create colossal drawers weighing half a ton, huge matches and a spoon, giant women’s high heels, a telephone and… Kasia Figura’s hips.

In order to shoot the scene, in which the protagonist, played by Jacek Chmielnik, walks on the hips of Kasia Figura, a special structure had to be built, and the finished shot was overlaid with an image of the actress’s hips, thus creating one of the most recognisable scenes in the history of Polish cinema.

‘Eat the soup, it’s hot – a bowl of hot tomato soup’

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Still from the film ‘The House of Fools’, directed by: Marek Koterski, 1984, pictured: Tadeusz Łomnicki, Bohdana Majda, Marek Kondrat, 1984, photo: WFDiF / National Film Archive, fototeka.fn.org.pl

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Amongst the creators of Polish comedies, the master of props is actually not Machulski, but Marek Koterski, who’s been inviting viewers on journeys full of metaphorical objects and significant elements for decades.

In Day of the Wacko (originally: Dzień Świra) alone, there are several dozen of them. Because with Koterski, objects characterise the protagonist – they are sometimes a metaphor or an element of everyday rituals. Let us recall, for example, the radio in the kitchen through which the protagonist listens with satisfaction about people stuck in traffic, with a bandage on his forehead after ‘running into a fucking mailbox’, or pants that need to be pulled up in the crotch just to sit more comfortably on the couch.

But for Koterski, props are also carriers of symbolic meanings. Once it was a cross carried on the shoulders of Adaś Miauczyński, who was dependent on his mother; or a Polish flag torn by politicians; at other times – a toilet seat lid that has been pissed on in a train, which Adaś sees as a sad symbol of Polish failure. Finally, there’s the soup. The famous tomato soup served by his overprotective mother – a symbol of family oppression and the hero’s ‘sweet suffering’.

Wink wink

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Wojciech Smarzowski, photo by Krzysztof Wiktor / Forum

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Contemporary Polish cinema more and more often treats props as part of a self-ironic game. In Maciej Bochniak’s Disco Polo or Agnieszka Smoczyńska’s The Lure, film props revive the reality of past decades while at the same time describing an imaginary world, full of a ‘ghostly’ nostalgia.

In the beautiful Zmruż Oczy (Squint Your Eyes) by Andrzej Jakimowski, the film radio station, which the protagonists of the film try to use, becomes an ironic symbol. In one of the scenes, a townsman played by Andrzej Chyra, who is in conflict with his daughter, tries to use the device, and after another failure, he hears from a local teenager: ‘If you want to learn how to transmit, first you must learn how to receive’. Thus, Jakimowski jokingly revealed the secret of good interpersonal communication, reminding his viewers of the need for mutual listening and openness.

To conclude our analysis, there’s one more film object that cannot be ignored when writing about the iconic props of Polish cinema. The axe – Wojciech Smarzowski’s trademark. In his work, from The Wedding to Clergy, it became the equivalent of Chekhov’s gun (which, if it appears on the wall in the first act of a drama, must be shot in the third). He uses it in The Dark House (originally: Dom Zły) and in Volhynia, where the axe becomes an instrument of murder, and at other times – a prophecy of evil. Above all, today it has become a rather humorous hallmark of the director and a symbol of his brutal honesty.

Originally written in Polish, Jun 2020, translated by Agnes Dudek, Nov 2020

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