Interrogation was finished in 1982, when Poland was under martial law (literally: stan wojenny or "state of war" [against the people, itself]), and the film was banned. Although the fictional story unfolds in the early 1950s, contemporary parallels must have been deemed dangerous. No matter, it was smuggled (on VHS!) to Canada, and seen.
As heroine Antonina, Krystyna Janda—in perhaps her most-celebrated performance—channels Maria Falconetti, but it's Joan with a twist: whereas the Saint had an ideology with which to steel herself, Antonina has only a strong notion of the self. What's more, its her enemies—her captors, tormentors—who possess an all-illuminating idea; and it confounds them when that fails to give them an edge. One, the enigmatic Lt. Morawski, finds himself captivated, then aroused by such idea-less strength of will. He impregnates Antonina, commits suicide. Is Antonina correct in her reading of him: a friend-less loner, a loser, a tortured survivor of the Nazi camps who did horrible things to stay alive and who now wants revenge? The truth seems milder. We feel sympathy for him; he is damaged; he is not a monster so much as playing one.
Indeed, all is theatre: Antonina must sit when the interrogator gives his performance; an execution is staged to scare Antonina into signing a confession. Deeper, the sexual undertones are unmistakable. Antonina is flirtatious, promiscuous. An early scene emphasizes her swaying hips as she performs for an audience of cheering men. This angers the authorities: morally, personally? The devout communist woman in Antonina's cell, who is happy to sacrifice herself for the Party and a better tomorrow, is fat, ugly, masculine. Is she, are the others, jealous? When Antonina is questioned for the first time, the pudgy-faced officer asks her to relate her entire sexual history—starting with kisses in the fourth grade. Several times, she's stripped. It's a process of humiliation, true; but he also gets off on it. Later in the film, when Antonina refuses to break, his pen stops working, he spills ink all over his table. A shot: while torturing Antonina by hosing her down with water, he holds the hose just below the waist, trying to light a cigarette with the other hand.
Finally, it's in sexual, moral [not political] re-education that the regime succeeds. As Antonina exits the jail and rejoins society-at-large, her weathered, pale face says she'll never be the same: no more parties, no more men, no more singing or being loud, spontaneous, obnoxious. As she visits the orphanage where her daughter (by Morawski) is now living—in a particularly horrific scene, jailers had ripped babies out of their wailing, screaming mothers' arms—we predict a grey, quiet life. And when we share her heartbreak at not being able to identify her own child, we feel that she probably can't identify herself, either.
In the film's final scenes, Antonina ascends the stairs to her husband's apartment—the same husband who had visited her in prison, had seemingly-believed her confessions, and expressed an open, clear hatred of her. The glass half-full may wish to interpret that as a ruse, a loving husband's means of convincing his wife she has nothing left to defend, so that she submits to the state, signs whatever they like, and ends her suffering. It's a beautiful wish. In reality, which the film mercifully refuses to show by ending on a closed door, her husband is just more of the same: a petty, sex-obsessed tyrant. Nominally, she is free; in fact, she has just switched one jail for another. Utter devastation.
Ryszard Bugajski, 1982
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