“Three Colors: Blue Vs White Vs Red” – The Aristocracy of European Cinema

Wanna abandon yourself to the literal cliché of slow European cinema?

Do you long not having a clue what you are being shown?

Say no more, Krzysztof Kieślowski is your guy, and the “Three Colors” trilogy is his magnum opus and your excuse for a comment section whataboutery later tonight.

“Blue”

A still frame from the film “Three Colors: Blue” by Krzysztof Kieślowski

What does Krzysztof Kieślowski want?

A pure but intrusive intimate bedtime story about Juliette Binoche, her beddings, her eyeball, her sugar cube melting within her coffee cup, and the trespassing cameraman recording Every. Heartbreaking. Second; a public footpath to the vails of secrecy of her selfhood – undergoing a cruel and raw unveiling, and at such a snail’s pace, centimeter by centimeter a way off into grief.

A gentle piano intro, followed by the harmonizing flute – only to bring about the broken French dialogue – having already erupted into this huge neo-baroque music composition by composer Zbigniew Preisner worthy alone of the byzantine blue canvas that Binoche’s face is, and the screen goes defocused of emotion.
Just watch the face.

What does the character want?

Julie lost her husband and daughter in a car accident.
What would you want grief-stricken like that?
Just a little liberty of pain.

Consider this:

Julie is an addict, and love (motherhood, possession, creation) is her vice of choice.

One day she learned her lesson the hard way (by losing her loved ones) when all of a sudden she came to her senses and set her mind on going love-sober.
As if love were guilty of pain.
And throughout the entire cinematic experience, we are witness to her heartbreaking creep between life and limbo.

Having said that, who do you think she would run to when life kicks in a little too much?
Whose name do you cry out when you run from the serial killer in your nightmares?
At times her nightmare too becomes unbearable to the point that… You know what? No spoilers.

Julie is an organic character whose kicking-and-screaming often changes shape.
Her every facial movement is crucial to making sense of the plot. Blink and you miss it.

“White”:

A still frame from the film “Three Colors: White” by Krzysztof Kieślowski

What does Krzysztof Kieślowski want?

To demonstrate how the pathway to love is never an unbroken, ever-ascending trail, by paying homage to George Orwell’s “Animal Farm” scenario.

This is brought to you by the warm-bloodedness of anti-comedy, goofiness of character Karol Karol (think: Charlie Chaplin), played by Zbigniew Zamachowski, and the diverse-range colors of: milky white, pearly white, and snow-white.

It has such a white-lie aura to it.

What does the character want?

Oh, he wants his ex-wife back.

But what do the pair rely on to save their marriage?

Well, in our opinion, what they both truly want is the “Animal Farm” type of equality, meaning him being  “a wee bit more equal” than his missus, and if he don’t get to be that – then he’s left suffering the hardship of sexual impotence, thus his wife is left loathing him, and him expecting that mere true love would do all the heavy lifting for him and save their relationship. I mean can you believe this guy.

“Red”:

A still frame from the film “Three Colors: Red” by Krzysztof Kieślowski

What does Krzysztof Kieślowski want?

He wants a movie to end all movies. He wants a Movienator.

A film so complex that it takes inventing a whole new medium just to film it:

Listen, you ever felt strangely related to a stranger?

Like they were just around the corner constantly about to bump into you?

Now, this has been done by the industry of cree… by Hollywood countless times, but what you’re seeing here is fine European cinema overfed in talent, yet starved of action.

Visual aesthetics: The pretty visage of heroine Irene Jacob and her innocent baby eyes under some fluffy daytime lighting – somewhat akin to an advertising technique.

(Aesthetics he’s adopted back in his documentary days).

He religiously keeps evoking déjà vu’s and internal correlations all the while by carefully applying red to just the right ones of the set’s knick-knacks and props.

What does the character want?

Valentine (Irene Jacob) is the most empathic and child-like character of the trilogy and what this movie builds upon is the idea of what brotherhood to the core really is, just keep that in mind.

And befriend an embittered, retired old judge with a god complex and a lost soul, is what Valentine does as early as the beginning of the movie.

Why tho?

For starters, you will intentionally be given the impression that:

a) they become friends by accident;

b) Valentine is a passive character;

c) nothing actively really happens in the movie;

All three are false.
It is our theory that she found this judge character because she was looking for him.

Why tho?

This is where we quote Dr. Wong of the popular show “Rick and Morty”:

“… it’s your mind within your control. You chose to come here, you chose to talk – to belittle my vocation – just as you chose to become a pickle.
You are the master of your universe, and yet you are dripping with rat blood and feces.”

Just like Rick Sanchez, Valentine may genuinely act surprised by where she ends up every time, but life is no accident, and the soul is no waste of space – our subconsciousness works steadily behind the scenes, making ultimately what is a biased decision.

“Do I turn left or right? Do I enter this house or not? Do I unleash a dog that I know will go back to its original owner because that’s what dogs do, or not?” – just to name a few.

Why tho?

Here comes the big one: So, Valentine has made the crucial-to-the-plot decision early on that she would somehow, just no matter what, find a way to rescue any rescuable replacement for her drug-addict of a brother, whom she just casually mentions as if just another pointless line of the movie (not even a subplot) – but it is much more than that, it is survivor’s guilt, it is pure child’s love and helplessness, it is b r o t h e r h o o d.

The rest of the story is out in the open, and we will not spoil it for you, but let you enjoy it.

Now that you have the perspective of that one quiet character whose story comes not even second, but last – do you begin to see the human shapes in the splashes of the abstract art?

And, boy, the way the trilogy was wrapped up…

But, what if you only get to pick one of these three?

“Blue”.
Pick: “Three colors: Blue”.

Johnny Boogieman

About Johnny Boogieman (né Johnathan Boogiemanovich Goode) is an American comedy reviewer and a self-proclaimed cinema connoisseur, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. … Johnny grew up on a farm in Louisiana, as the only child of a Louisiana-based field worker, dressmaker, dog hairstylist, dog collar jewelry designer, dog walker for the elderly (dogs and owners), disabled and elderly dog walking aids creator-in-attempt, and homemaker, Dutch single mother. As large a clientele as dogs were for the barely-gasping-for-air family business, they were the proud owners of a single tabby cat alone, a streetwise and self-dependent hunter known by either of the street names Stringer Bell and El Capo (sometimes referred to as El Cato). … Having been amazed by the crazy wild early readings of Jules Verne, Johnny’s school days were spent dreaming he’d someday make for a good storyteller. Hence, as early as fourth grade, eager to prove himself to the world, he went for it and constructed a well-balanced heartbeat-skipping thrilling essay, pointing out to some well-reasoned critique of society and solid character arcs, committing to his talents to the fullest and diving right into that pool of majestic phrasing and complexity of thought, confident he’d soon get bejeweled with a spotless A and a pretty clap by the teacher, with gradually having the whole class join in looking up to him as he emerges from his seat to receive his essay evaluation. When results day came, though, little Johnny not only got a D, but he was mocked by the teacher and class for the gullible overexposure of his fragile overambitious mutating childish writing skills of questionable taste and poor poor quality. It was the “you’re tearing me apart, Lisa” equivalent of a child’s essay. He was rather massacred. He never got that brave ever again. … Anyway, Johnny mainly spent his summers field-working on a sunflower field with his uncle Berry under the widespread wings of the storks and the chesty white doves and clever black crows who all flew right under the neighbor’s umbrella caps patio ceiling installation thingy as soon as the first raindrop was godshed over the one-eyed monsters battalion that the sunflower sea was to Johnny. It drove the unwilling bird host nuts, and he’d storm right out yelling and cursing at the birds, “we’re going, we’re going” they went, and flew a semi-circle over the umbrella caps as to fool him and came right back the other way around pretending to be some fresh arrivals of clueless law-abiding American birds not yet acquainted with the police system of the patio. The guy wouldn’t take it out as it took ages to plant and he and his wife thought it made them look like fancy DIY people who had some ideas worthy of admiration. Oh, the bird manure, though, oh the bird manure. “Work your time, boy” – staring Johnny’s uncle frowned, his eye twinkled. … Cinema was to Johnny what he made plans for, what he made time for, what he looked up to all his life, and as he became a young adult, what he fancied himself to have a special talent to understand. It was the sort of a sixth sense, an intuition, a gut sense. He was the squad movie buff and a film whisperer. “No”, it whispered, “Fight Club ain’t no bueno. Mark my words and don’t ask why ‘cos you ain’t schooled enough to know why, boy.” He tried, though, he debated and disputed over a glass of scotch-on-the-rocks and under the jibe of a saxophone jazz, but it was as fruitless and dull as the poetry he wrote - unclean, uneven, and too abstract - as if he hadn’t found a voice to speak in yet. He did his part for years to come, reading as all writers ought to, writing and not publishing until he found out what he had to say with the peculiar piece of work. As for cinema, it happened one evening as he discussed legs-up-a-recliner their plans for the future with his lover-cum-best friend in their rented one-bedroom living space in New Jersey, that his lover casually contributed: “And then I thought we could start a film blog and you could do the content writing” – words that sunflower field Johnny with his gangster cat and his dewy eyes staring at the rainy-day con birds thought he’d never hear.

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