Roman Polański, the creator of Rosemary’s Baby, Chinatown, The Pianist, and so many other outstanding films, turns 91. That means for most people interested in film and the arts, Polański’s work –– as a director, artist, and legend –– has “always” existed, at least as far back as they can remember.

However, the typical Western cinephiles can’t even understand what Roman Polański and his work meant for the history of Poland in the last seventy years –– not only for film, for culture, for name recognition, but most significantly, for broad and ageless social awareness.

The key to understanding who Roman Polański is to this day, and more importantly, who he was for Poles during his Hollywood directorial glory, is realizing what Poland was actually like during communism: a poor, gray, monotonous, undemocratic world, deprived of the rule of law, managed by ideologized totalitarian power imposed by the Soviets, utilizing violence, censorship, fear, and terror and refusing to accept differences, individualism, freedom of speech, thought, and choice.

Polish reality itself, separated from the West by the Iron Curtain, was characterized by a constant feeling of claustrophobia and enslavement. From the perspective of Poland as a nation in the 1950s and 1960s, the free world of the West was the reality of another planet –– distant, inaccessible, dreamed of, even idealized. In those first two post-war decades, there was no more common, no more profound, and no more unrealistic a dream than a „journey to the West,” especially among intellectual youth, those who looked forward to a future that could only seem fictional.

Because the West was a mere myth. A fair, free land where anything was possible, any dream an acceptable purpose. During those two decades especially, the idea that it’d be possible for Poland to free itself from the Soviet Union, to gain independence was the only “dream” ever considered. Nobody expected the collapse of a totalitarian regime, and the most painful aspect of the Polish condition was an acute awareness that the free world had no idea about us, that it knew nothing about our history and culture, that it didn’t notice or even care, or at best it perceived Poland and Poles as one of the countless anonymous, faceless, non-individualized elements of a communist world under the Kremlin’s rule.

We were nothing but a tiny planet, unseen and unimportant, in a distant, hostile, indiscernible galaxy viewed only from afar, judged and observed more as a functional whole lacking necessary elements. Hence the overwhelming collective desire of Poles and Poland to succeed on the world stage, or at least take notice of it. During the Stalinist era, the only chance for that were traditional sports because everything else was in the distorted hands of ideology, and therefore beyond the reach of the human spirit of fantasy, innovation, and imagination.

Yet just then –– seemingly out of the blue –– during the political thaw after Stalin’s death, shortly after the so-called „October” workers’ revolt of 1956, a 25-year-old directing student at the Łódź Film School, Roman Polański, suddenly appeared in the minds of Polish cinema enthusiasts. He received the first prize in the history of the Film School at a Western film festival in Brussels, Belgium for his short film, Two Men with a Wardrobe.

The film’s theme –– a quintessential example of the spirit and resolve of the theater of the absurd –– illustrated the indifference and cruelty of a world intolerant of that which is different. Previously, Polański was known for his supporting film roles, minor but undoubtedly memorable. Even in his twenties, he always looked young and adolescent, and absolutely proved himself in roles expressing aggressive, go-getting, impudent characters. He attracted attention with his “feisty fighter” personality, overcoming his physical limitations of short stature, thinness, even lankiness with overt ambition and contagious self-confidence.

After the success of Two Men with a Wardrobe, another breakthrough on a much larger scale came a few years later in 1962 when Polanski produced his first feature film in Poland, the remarkably subtle Knife in the Water. This became an extraordinary event for Polish cinema –– and a historic turning point for Polish viewers –– because the film not only received Poland’s first Oscar nomination in its film history, but the Knife in the Water film poster appeared on the cover of Time magazine.

Knife in the Water was truly extraordinary. After years of ideological communist groupthink, Polish cinema only ever managed to express and present accounts of the Second World War with an intentional focus on a serious or bitterly ironic tone. Polański’s film, on the other hand, was something completely different and revolutionary: a psychological drama that took place in a reality outside of history, beyond ideology, in the timeless landscapes of the Polish lake district. The film, which was shockingly new and illuminating for Polish cinema, was enthusiastically received by audiences and met with utter disdain and disgust from communist authorities in film circles, production management, and political intellectuals. It was primarily accused of a lack of ideals, the communist apparatchiks ironically unable to recognize that it was precisely that “lack of ideology” that’d become most exhilarating and liberating in a post-Stalin Poland.

Shortly after the premiere of Knife in the Water, Polański went to France, then Great Britain, and finally settled in Hollywood, where he conquered the film industry with his natural talent and artistry. And throughout his career, that unique (and necessary) identification-projection mechanism operated on Polish viewers specifically; for Poland, Polański was our man in Hollywood, conquering the capital of world cinema. Each of his successes was naturally considered a national achievement, Polański essentially becoming a significant cultural –– even historical –– figure.

In the gloomy, propagandistic world of socialist realist cinema during the Stalinist period, we witnessed the actualization of Lenin’s cinematic slogan for years: „Of all the arts, for us the cinema is the most important.” But with the rise of Polański, the manifestation of that slogan finally reached harvest. But not for communism, or Stalinism, or propaganda and ideology, but fittingly for talent, creativity, and innovation. For hope. For dreams. For the very things which cinema embodies and ideology can’t contain: the human spirit.

Just like Lenin claimed, if cinema is the most important art, then the director is naturally vital to cinema, and since Polański was an internationally recognized director, simple logic proved that he was the embodiment of us. Polański became our cinematic savior. So when he left Poland –– when he broke free from the cage in which we were all still imprisoned –– he became our idol, our embodiment, our representative in a world far beyond our scope and horizon. In other words, Polański left Poland not only to pursue a purpose and live a life, but unknowingly he did so on behalf of all our “purposes,” all our lives yet lived.

If nothing else than on an artistic, expressive level, Polański was free. He radiated freedom. He spread his wings. Nothing stopped him, nothing could. His Polish life experiences were no obstacle in earning international acclaim; on the contrary, Polański mastered the universal language of cinema with reckless bravado. His work proved that a student of the Łódź Film School could capture the world’s attention –– that he could terrify the world with Rosemary’s Baby, amuse and enchant with The Fearless Vampire Killers, unmask titans with Chinatown, remind the world its own mercy and misgivings through The Pianist, or shock us all with the vapidity of existential emptiness in Cul-de-Sac.

By far the most significant, and intrinsically crucial, element of Polański’s seismic influence was the casual, almost nonchalant style in which he entered and refined world cinema. Not only did he embody complete artistic freedom –– without provincial or political complexes –– but he also applied it in countless challenging ways. Polański knew only too well that evil affects the imagination more innately and more compellingly than good. So he always chose a „dark” stylization, symbolically defined by his Chinatown cameo as that random sadistic gangster, a role he’d already foreshadowed as a “bullying hooligan” in Two Men with a Wardrobe.

Polański sensed (seemingly without error) that he could never portray a meek, polite character, that he was neither a „top student” nor a „teacher’s pet,” and that his success –– as actor, director, character, even the antiquated version of an “influencer” –– would only be ensured by assuming the role of the „bad boy.” Hence his inclination towards and fascination with evil, the inherent darkness and criminality visible in so many of his films, which obviously never approved of the evil in our world, but rather emphasized and illuminated our existential horror toward it. That seamless and sinister perspective of the world, that seemingly natural enchantment with its brutality, that artistic attempt to hide our helplessness towards it… All those elements were embodied by Polański playing the character Alfred in The Fearless Vampire Killers and Trelkovsky in The Tenant.

Throughout Poland over the years, Polański’s pugnacity translated into greater recognition for „Romek,” that friendly Polish diminutive version of his first name. Polański never groveled before the “overwhelming” world to which we had no access; instead, he doubled down, treating it brusquely. Not only did he deal with the world as an equal, but the sheer trajectory of his career, the momentum with which he entered and dominated Hollywood proved that the film industry “they” probably cared about him more than he ever cared about „them.”

Just the personalities who chose to collaborate with Polański were impressive. The “big names” spoke for themselves –– Jack Nicholson, Harrison Ford, Marcello Mastroianni, Mia Farrow, Johnny Depp, Donald Pleasence, Isabelle Adjani, Hugh Grant, Ben Kingsley, Jodie Foster, Kate Winslet, Sydne Rome, John Cassavetes, Ruth Gordon, Walter Matthau, and so many others –– or even up-and-coming actors like Catherine Deneuve or Nastassja Kinski, whose careers accelerated after appearing in Polański’s films, proved his influence and inspiration.

For Poles, it was proof that if Polański succeeded, so could they. That „sky’s the limit” sentiment was also for them, invigorating, uplifting, perhaps unjustified at times, but priceless nonetheless if only for their direct connection to the pricelessness of actual self-confidence. In the gloomy years of martial law in the early 1980s, Polish teenagers –– especially Łódź Film School students who believed in artistic universalism –– often sang „Manchester England,” that famous pop-hymn from the musical, Hair, interestingly known to them only from the Miloš Forman film version, where their own personal distinctions rang loud and clear in Bukowski’s legendary words:

„Manchester England England

Across the Atlantic Sea

And I’m a genius genius

I believe in God

And I believe that God

Believes in Claude

That’s me that’s me

Claude Hooper Bukowski

Finds that it’s groovy

To hide in a movie

Pretends he’s Fellini

And Antonioni

And also his countryman Roman Polanski

All rolled into one

One Claude Hooper Bukowski”

And then something even more resonant happened. In the era of mass cultural celebrity dominance, Roman Polański became the first genuine “celebrity” from behind the Iron Curtain. And not only did he earn the label, he lived up to it every step he took. Perhaps that’s why the old joke was so accurate: „Who was Julius Caesar? The most notorious Roman until Polański.” Even the horrendous “Hollywood Crime of the Century” he endured –– the murder of Polański’s wife, Sharon Tate, and her friends by the Charles Manson gang –– which destroyed his personal life in 1969, paradoxically became unprecedented bait for the tabloids to glorify and cement his pop-culture legend.

And in Poland especially, where people were suffering the era of terrifying economic stagnation and political impotence, tragic events “popularized” around the world only cemented Polański’s legacy. The natural compassion for „one of ours” was only magnified by innate feelings related to the complexes (and complexity) of political marginalization, that one of “us” was in the center of events that the entire world was talking about and becoming obsessed with. In 1971, the well-known reporter Krzysztof Kąkolewski published the non-fiction novel, How Immortals Die, which centered around the murders on Cielo Drive in Beverly Hills. Although the book contained fabrication and speculation, it gained considerable popularity and only deepened the mythologization of Roman Polański’s ideas, cementing another generation’s broad fascination with the director, his art, and now his tragic personal life.

Polański’s professional successes were truly legendary; they became a fount of inspiration for years, for multiple generations of students of the Łódź Film School. Polański became the school’s David, the official icon of its exemplary credentials and artistic integrity, but especially its implicit “promise” that helped every student dream of „becoming” the next Polański.

Personally, I remember the atmosphere of his nostalgic first visit back in the spring of 1981, more than two decades years after he left. Those photos from the moment when everyone gathered around him on the famous stairs defined the school, the sentiment, the changes that had inspired lives. The atmosphere was electrifying. (And the media helped.) From 1959 to today, his success taught Polish students that anything is possible. Especially during the communist years, that immense awareness itself had a cathartic and liberating dimension.

Polański consistently employed numerous Polish friends and professionals, starting with the music composer for his first films, the phenomenal Krzysztof Komeda, and ending with the cinematographer for his late films, Paweł Edelman. Polish viewers were delighted with the small yet noticeable friendly gestures designed only for them and their nationality, for example his casting of the immensely popular sports figure and shot put Olympic champion, Władysław Komar, as the strongman Jesus character in Pirates. Employing Poles by Polański was so common that it ultimately became one of the key plot elements in the most popular comedy in the history of Polish cinema, Teddy Bear, by Stanisław Bareja. Every one of these choices (and countless others) proved Polański’s permanent pop-culture legacy.

Polański never forgot Poland, he never failed to send distinct signals to Polish viewers from a distance –– winks and hat tips understandable only to them. In The Fearless Vampire Killers, a Jewish innkeeper’s maid hums a song called “Prząśniczka” by the 19th-century Polish composer Stanisław Moniuszko. And later, that same innkeeper asks his wife about „bigos,” that characteristic Polish cuisine cabbage dish featured in Mickiewicz’s national poem. In the 1979 Franco-British film, Tess, one of the characters plays the melody of a popular Polish song from the late 18th century. The diabolical “safanduła” (a dismissive oaf) Roman Castevet from Rosemary’s Baby recalls the American triumphs of the Polish theater actress Helena Modjeska. In 2002, Polański played the leading role in the film adaptation of the classic Polish theater comedy Revenge by Aleksander Fredro, directed by Wajda, who’d employed Polański decades earlier in his debut film in 1955.

Polański made it eternally clear at the turn of the century when he told the American PBS host, Charlie Rose: „In my heart I’m Polish … My heart goes to Poland.”

In the 1960s and 1970s, as a result of contraceptive innovations, a sexual revolution flourished, and the prevailing customs of the film industry placed film producers and directors in a privileged position, especially compared to women seeking roles, opportunities, and professional trajectories. From today’s point of view –– especially the reflective revisionism of current cultural trends –– such a situation was unacceptable and atrocious. However, back then it seemed “normal” or “routine” or “standard” to most people. (Shocking but true.) In the case of Roman Polański, things went too far; brutal, elitist, dismissive. In 1977 the director committed the crime of sexual intercourse with a minor, which he openly admitted to both in court and in his biography, “Roman by Polanski” published in 1984.

In Poland, the reaction was shame and embarrassment, but the constant internal sympathy and understanding towards “our” Romek resulted in the widespread, prevailing attitude of keeping silent, of pretending that nothing had happened, or if it did, there was more to the story and therefore more “justification.” Polański’s innate legacy and Poland’s national “trust” in the legend as our ambassador to the free world was so great that even the false notion of a “planned conspiracy” ultimately prevailed. Some claim it was merely the “fringes” who thought that way, but nonetheless, for the mass national imagination, Roman Polański was still somewhere around Nicolaus Copernicus and Maria Skłodowska-Curie. Roman Polański transcended reality. (And therefore the consequences of reality.) The fact is that no Polish filmmaker –– or for that matter any Polish artist in history –– had achieved that level of worldwide recognition. Regardless of the limitations of our reality, it’s indisputable.

It was then and remains today.

A breakthrough in how we perceived Roman Polański in Poland was the publication of his autobiography „Roman by Polanski” in the late 1980s. The book allowed Polish fans to learn the story of his childhood –– his time in the Krakow ghetto, hiding from the Holocaust with a family of poor Polish farmers, the loss of his mother, parting with his father deported to a concentration camp. His personal confession brought Polański even closer to Poles.

Before he told his story, he was a well-known figure and artist, yet remained partially (perhaps intentionally) distant and mysterious. Now with his „confession” he gained the trust and true “closure” with the very people who’d been observing him, praising him, celebrating him, and relying on him for decades. His viewers now understood him on an even deeper level; they knew that he’d experienced a great trauma in his childhood, one of the few individuals who’d survived the machine of the genocidal totalitarian German state. That realization made it absolutely clear that Polański was the best, perhaps the only director truly suited to adapt the story of Władysław Szpilman and bring The Pianist to the screen.

What impact did these experiences have on his work? Do they explain his unusual drive and need for success? Another Jewish boy, Dawid Sierakowiak, wrote in his diary in the Łódź ghetto, „If we survive the ghetto, we’ll certainly experience a richness of life that we wouldn’t have appreciated otherwise.” And Polański provided his own echo, „I feel that my escapades, my wildness and strength have sprung from a sense of wonder at what life has to offer. My work, my fantasies have been motivated primarily by a desire to please, to entertain, to startle people or make them laugh. I enjoy playing the fool, strutting around on the world’s stage.”

Yet in the very same testimonial he claimed with comical self-deprecation, „I am widely regarded, I know, as an evil, profligate dwarf.”

Perhaps. Perhaps today. Perhaps these days in a world constantly revising and redefining the very nature and perception of “reality.”

But not in Poland.

It’s different in Poland. Just like Italy’s Fellini, Sweden’s Bergman, and France’s… let’s say… Godard were all exceptional 20th century filmmakers of international fame, Roman Polański was, is, and will always be so much more.

And even in Hollywood to this very day, a conversation continues as it’s had for generations: „The eternal question about Roman Polański is whether Poland created his talent and trajectory or whether Polański the director highlighted and therefore defined the exceptionality of Polish film school, film history, and film artistry…”

In Poland, Roman Polański gained mesmerizing recognition for decades as an emissary and manifestation of our dreams, of the possibilities awaiting us in the not-too-distant yet long-awaited future.

And let’s be honest, he created –– and still creates –– exceptional films.

Paweł Jędrzejewski