For the most part, historical or biographical films, particularly those populated by famed and sainted characters, are polite enough to follow a predictable course of events. Freighted with this awareness, or not as the case may be, the filmgoer can console himself with the knowledge that stories are about journeys and not destinations.
Writers and directors can go rather off-piste in pursuit of narrative or political fame: as when Quentin Tarantino gunned down Hitler in a French theatre in 1944, or when Gina Prince-Bythewood turned a slaver-kingdom into a beacon of liberalising rectitude; but they do tend to subject their characters to some adversity. They must recreate the tension of a moment not yet resolved. It is peculiar, then, that Michal Kondrat’s film Prophet, about the life and exploits of Cardinal Stefan Wyszyński, the Primate of Poland during most of the Cold War, breaks the mould.
Wyszyński’s life is characterised by nothing if not upheaval. During the Second World War he was pursued by the Gestapo for his public and published criticism of the Nazi regime before the war. He was imprisoned in several monasteries across Poland for his opposition to the PZPR (the Polish Communist Party) in the early 1950s; it was during that time that he began making plans for the celebration of the Polish Millennium in 1966. All the while he was watched and reported on by a priest and a nun imprisoned with him.
It is in the last of his confinements at Komańcza that Kondrat introduces Wyszyński. Two senior ministers of the communist government arrive at his little rural prison to strike a deal with him about his return to Warsaw. The dignified and controlled politeness of the cardinal is a stark contrast to the fidgeting awkwardness of the apparatchiks. The only line of dialogue in the short but tense scene is spoken by Wyszyński: “I cannot accept that.”
Retreating with their tails between their legs, the two report to the menacingly gleeful First Secretary of the party, Władysław Gomułka. When he learns of Wyszyński’s terms (the release of his bishops and their return to their home dioceses, the annulment of the decree on filling church posts, and the resumption of the work of the State and Church Commission), he readily agrees.
And so the story continues – a battle between the calm moral certainty of the now-beatified cardinal and the ugly tension of the state officials, who with all the power of the state and lacking any of the moral restraints of their opponent cannot compel him to toe the line. It seems rather empty at first. A protagonist with no character development is peculiar. The implacable cardinal remains unwaveringly correct and in perpetual triumph over his sinister functionary opponents.
But as the film progresses, Kondrat’s intentions become clearer. The narrative is drawn into a parallel between the leaderships of both church and state. Every hero needs an anti-hero. Adam Ferency’s sly and animalistic portrayal of Gomułka is the perfect counterpoint to Slawomir Grzymkowski’s cardinal. Gomułka is ugly, crass, dogmatic and prone to rages; Wyszyński is composed, humble and dignified. These absolute figures are two sides of the same coin, and each is a defining character of Poland’s Cold War. Between these absolutes is the entirety of Poland. It is the actions and character arcs of their fellow countrymen that come to define the progression of the film. Members of each man’s entourage struggle to find their way between these twin pillars of church and state, of tradition and progress.
The grand set pieces in the film, often cast in parallel, present an opportunity for these other figures to take their place in the framework laid out by the two poles. The celebrations that accompanied the Millennium of Poland’s Baptism – Wyszynski’s crowning glory, which he conceived as a means for Poland’s spiritual renewal – is one such defining moment that sees the tide turn in favour of tradition and faith.
What distinguishes Kondrat’s work for the Anglo-Saxon cinema regular is his acute awareness of nationhood. Throughout Prophet, Kondrat continuously reaffirms Wyszyński’s belief that there is more to the Polish nation than the bureaucratic state. The state officials struggle to escape the linguistic trappings of tradition, wishing each other a “Merry Christmas” and speaking of the “Primate” rather than the “Church manager” much to the spitting rage of First Secretary Gomułka.
Though not a point laboured by Kondrat in the film, the cardinal’s realism about the communist state – he expected it to survive for decades – had him take a more measured view about resistance to it. He sought to ensure the survival of the pastoral functions of the church, so he compromised on certain issues.
Though this leads to gossip and speculation beyond the borders of his own country that he is in the pocket of the “Reds”, he is unconcerned. His role, which Kondrat has him carry out almost too perfectly, is to present opportunities for redemption and renewal to his fellow Poles, none more so than for the young Karol Wojtyła to whom he is both a mentor and a John the Baptist figure.
Much like Kondrat’s previous docudramas about Polish saints and hints at theology, Prophet is more documentary than drama. It presents a firm case for a Polish identity inseparable from its religious roots and a hero who is all too perfect. It is a compelling history for those not familiar with the misery of the Eastern Bloc but with narrative antagonists who were perhaps rather too easily seen off.
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