The Color Blue

A film is nothing more than a series of moments. It is not a day in the life, but rather a seemingly random conglomeration of specific visions. This is the mastery of Krzystztof Kieslowski's film Blue. The film does not linger upon random trifles, but rather finds meaning in supposedly trivial matters. The masterful use of editing, cutting two seemingly disparate images together, creates a jarring and incredibly emotional experience, allowing the viewer to experience the ebs and flows of depression and mania.

The film begins, however, not with an image, but the lack thereof. Much like the protagonist, the director depends first not upon image, but sound. But when this sound is assisted by that first visceral image, the effect is ten fold. Instead of establishing the world, giving the viewer a wide lens deep focus look into the protagonist's existence, it instead cuts to a single wheel, speeding along a busy highway. The next series of cuts masterfully foreshadows the inevitable demise of a domestic family, with the quick cut to the dripping oil. This is the mastery not of visuals, but editing. The dripping alone offers few, if any clues. It is only the addition of sound and all the cuts which encompass it which allows the act of foreshadowing. The film does not, however, allow the audience to ever see the family, other than the child, before the accident.

It is the loss of the child, the loss of naivety, the loss of innocence, which is the basis of the film. While the film is not, necessarily, about Anna, she and of herself is the inciting incident. Without her existence, without her death, nothing ever becomes of the car crash. Notice the scene where Julie watches the funeral from the safety of covers. She mourns not the husband, but the child, caressing her casket. Not only that, but consider the visual of hiding under a blanket. Julie is once again a child, reverting back to an earlier version of herself, a version where none of the world matters, where a simple piece of cloth can hide one from existence.

The very editing of the crash itself is that of distancing. Notice the film refuses to show the actual act, but rather forces the viewer to experience the trauma from a random third party. This boy, for he is playing with a toy, is a stand in for the viewer. Much like the viewer, he knows nothing about the family, nothing about their history, nothing about their existence. He, much like the viewer, is thrown into the tragedy and forced to make what he will of it. But the film does not even grant us this experience, for as the boy approaches the vehicle, the camera cuts to a wide, shooting from a significant distance. Every time the viewer craves intimacy, the film counters with a cold, methodical, response.

Consider then the very next shot, an extreme close up of a feather. This, in a certain sense, is representative of the film as a whole. A contradiction of extreme close ups and terribly wide shots. Again and again the film gives the audience one of the two, yet so rarely gives the viewer an objective view. But the movement of the feather, the sound of breathing, can't help but encourage a certain sense of hope. Without a single line of dialogue, without a single explanation, the viewer is almost certain that someone has survived.

When the film finally grants the viewer the first view of the protagonist, the lone survivor, it is only for a moment, mere seconds. Notice how the moment she receives the news of her daughter, the film immediately cuts to the smashing of glass. Instead of depending upon the actor's actions alone, or writing a long soliloquy akin to Shakespeare, the director instead dives into the language of film, using that terrible, horrific image to say what no words can. But instead of simply cutting back to Julie lying in bed, the film uses this moment to move the plot forward, ending with Julie's failed attempt at suicide.

But the editing of this scene, the pacing of this moment, juxtaposes the first. It is not hectic. There is no suspense. The film refuses to give the viewer the satisfaction of dramatizing horror. Instead, the film simply cuts from Julie, to the nurse, and then back to Julie. It is not until after she spits out the pills that both the audience and Julie recognize the nurse staring back. This is not a failed attempt at suspense, but rather an intentional reaction to it. In this moment of great despair, there is no feeling of pain, or horror; it is rather the lack there of it. In this moment Julie is simply trying to feel anything, but instead, much like the audience, she feels nothing.

The crux of the film, however, is not the crash, nor the supposed suicide, though many a filmmaker would lean upon these crutches. It is instead a series of moments amplified by a the fade to black.

Traditionally, a fade to black is that which suggests to the viewer a passage of time. When one considers the work of Keaton or Chaplin, a fade to black was often the end of a scene or a day or a week or a year. But in Blue, the fade to black is nothing more than the passage of a single moment. In fact, it may very well be the case that the moment is actually elongated, the fade to black making mere seconds seem like hours. This is a brilliant use of film vocabulary. But it only works because the audience has a preconceived notion of what a fade to black is. This notion, this belief, this law, allows the film to play with the form, and make a mountain out of a molehill.

But this is not tongue in cheek, it is not facetious; rather, the film is calling attention to specific moments, which the fade to black suggests must be taken as life changing, for the viewer is thrown in and out of consciousness. The person Julie was before the fade to black and the person after are two very different people. While seemingly nothing has changed, while the outside world has stayed rather the same, it is the internal experience, the subjective existence, which has fundamentally changed.

Consider the very first fade to black. Julie is awoken not by some external voice, but a sort of internal monologue, the music, which awakens with a bluish hue. Immediately after this incident, she is greeted by a journalist, someone Julie quickly refuses. On the surface, from a completely objective view, Julie simply awoke and said no. There's nothing more to it. But the music, followed by the fade to black, suggests that it is the music which will pull her out of this depression and the realization of this is the separation from the hello of the journalist and the refusal.

The other fades to black work in a similar manner. With each fade to black, there is a sort of revelation. Julie realizes some deeper truth about herself, some deeper truth about her surroundings. With each fade to black, she is growing older, wiser, no longer reverting to the weaker, childish self.

But this is not to say there are no setbacks. Nor is this to say this is linear path of growth. Throughout the film Julie acts in a seemingly selfish manner. She thinks not of those around her, nor how her actions affect others. Consider her early sexual transactions with Karol. She treats him not as a human but an object of pleasure, and the moment he provides no more pleasure, she abandons him. Again, much like the car crash, the film masterfully edits around the act itself, not allowing the viewer to participate or even witness these moments of feeling, whether tragic or euphoric.

The epitome of these acts, the greatest savagery of Julie's decisions, is that of the man fleeing his captors. Again take notice of the editing of the scene. It is not frantic. It is not hectic. The film refuses to let the viewer see anything more than what Julie herself sees. The film does not indulge in dramatization, nor does it quicken or slow the pace of the chase. Instead, much like Julie, the viewer is forced to watch, without the ability to make any decision whatsoever. Much like Julie, the viewer is helpless, forced to witness the probable death of a most likely innocent man. But it is interesting to note the film gives the viewer no context for the fight. One assumes the innocence of the man who flees, but he may very well be violent criminal who deserves everything he gets. But once again, the film doesn't give the audience that luxury.

Ironically, however, it is because of this incident that Julie can finally become who she is meant to become. Through the whole first half of the film, Julie is a slave to her reactions. What few choices she makes are not actually her own, but the choices of the rest of the world. Again and again Julie tries to refuse everything that is offered, even trying to destroy the very art which made her whole. But when she is locked out of the apartment, when she is forced to sleep on the stairs, she witnesses a lurid affair.

Again, like every scene before and after, it is entirely from Julie's perspective. Much like Julie herself, the film makes very little of the scene. It does not scandalize the incident, it does not dramatize the incident; rather, the film plays the incident exactly as it is. Notice how the film doesn't cut to Julie until after all the action has already taken place. The film forces the viewer to draw their own conclusion, based upon their own morals. And when one finally sees Julie's reaction, it is no reaction at all. It is blank. It is nothing.

But this seemingly innocuous moment, this momentary view of a scandalous affair, allows Julie to take her first step in the right direction. For the first time in the film, Julie makes a decision that is entirely her own. This decision leads to companionship and eventually the forgiveness of her husband's lover, for if one can forgive a total stranger, a lover is all the easier.

Editing then, is the crux of the film. It is through editing which allows the viewer to experience the world in which Julie daily lives through. While images may be grand and beautiful, they are entirely external. It is the mixing of images, the fast and slow pacing, the refusal to dramatize, which allows the viewer to participate in the depths of emotions which plague Julie. If a film is ever to be anything more than a photograph, it must be a lesson in editing, for without the forethought of a great edit, a film is nothing more than a random series of moments.