Olivia Miller

MY FIRST VIEWING of Krzysztof

Kieślowski’s The Double Life of Veronique left me in a dream-like haze—entranced by the fleeting fragments of reflection and light, artfully shot through the camera’s warm, viridescent tint. I was perplexed by the naive complexity of Irene Jacob’s performance as both Weronika and Veronique, and awed by the story’s intimately captured, otherworldly events, blurring the lines between reality and fate. It compelled me to give closer attention and value to the coincidences I encounter in my own everyday experience, to observe more details, shadows and patterns, to relinquish thought and reason and be led by intuition, sensation and feeling—a state of being that Irene Jacob so enchantingly embodies. From the moment Weronika appears on screen, singing with a choir in the rainfall, her expression is filled with complete, passionate presence, enraptured by the sensation of water hitting her eyelids as she belts the final note, head tilted to the sky as if professing love to the clouds. Next, Weronika is shown in a dark, murky backstreet, strikingly noir, embracing her lover; this provocative image of Weronika contrasts the innocence of the previous shot. Although different in character, both shots establish Weronika as acutely attuned to experiencing pleasure and the subtleties of the present moment. This attribute consistently draws the viewer into her world, observations, charming curiosity and intuitive revelations—all elegantly captured by the camera’s attention to detail, occasional distortion and play with light and shadow. The use of reflection in particular, emphasized through glass, mirrors and objects, consistently alludes to Weronika’s identical counterpart—Veronique. The first indication that Weronika

threads of connection:

written by olivia miller the double life of veronique

has a double is in the alley with her lover: a large shadow of their intertwined figure is projected on the wall behind them. In the next sequence they are in bed, and Weronika glances up at her wall to interlock eyes with herself, captured in a black and white photograph. Light is streaming in from the window, interrupted by a gentle downpour of rain, projecting an eerie, ghost-like quality on the image; it is as if Weronika is deeply connected to the photograph, while simultaneously aware, even pleased, that it is a lost, distant version of herself. In the next scene, Weronika is speaking to her father and curiously remarks, “I have a strange feeling. I feel that I’m not alone... That I’m not alone in the world.” An amber green light hits her right cheek, casting a reflection of her face in the window frame on the left. With the context of Weronika’s recent premonition, the reflection in the glass takes on new meaning. The visual emphasis on shadows and reflections invite the viewer to experience hints of the intuitive bond that connects Weronika and her double.

The first thirty minutes of the film follow Weronika—she travels by train to Kraków to visit her sick aunt, and by chance, receives the opportunity to audition for a concert. Returning from a music session, Weronika is caught in a demonstration in Kraków square. The intensity and noise heightens around her as crowds run to evade the police and board buses. One of these buses appears to be for tourists, with an Eiffel tower printed on the exterior, and it catches Weronika’s eye. She stops in the middle of the square to stare at it; amidst the chaos of the protestors, she is perfectly still, as if beguiled in an alternate, intimate world. A close-up reveals the object of her pensive gaze—a young girl with short brown hair who appears identical to Weronika.

The French girl, later known as Veronique, boards the bus, and through the window is shown taking photos of the demonstration. Weronika, awed by her vision, moves out into the open, where she might be captured by Veronique’s camera as the bus leaves the square. The two are fittingly separated by glass, only instead of producing a phantom reflection, a human double is on the other side. Following this brief, mysterious encounter, Weronika is repeatedly framed behind glass windows. First, she is on a bus, listening to her music, when she

notices her boyfriend through the glass, riding his motorcycle. Second, she is shown dressing in her room; emotionally distressed, she presses her face against the window. It is as if she is trying to physically touch her reflection in the window, an attempt to dissolve the barrier or veil that separates her from Veronique.

In the following scene, the veil is in some sense lifted. Weronika’s life is taken prematurely while performing at the concert—her heart fails, she dramatically falls over, and she dies. A POV shot is used to depict Weronika’s fall; the world becomes shaky and a muffled thud is heard as she hits the ground. Rather than dimming black, the floor remains

visible, implying that even with her physical death, Weronika’s spirit is capable of seeing. This event marks the transition into Veronique’s world, in which the film lingers for the remaining hour. In this transition, light and glass are distinctively employed to simulate a form of rebirth. The last shot set in Poland is taken at Weronika’s funeral. The camera

is positioned inside the grave, suggesting it is from Weronika’s perspective, like the POV shot that expresses her fall. When family and friends from above begin tossing dirt onto the casket, it is as if a living being is experiencing getting enclosed in darkness from below; this being is seemingly revitalized in the following transition. The camera is positioned behind a light bulb, and through this distorted, hazy lens Veronique is depicted having sex. The darkness from Weronika’s grave transforms into an intimate moment infused with life and a transcendent spiritual quality.

Just as Weronika sensed Veronique’s presence, Veronique has an intuitive premonition of Weronika’s death. Saddened, she tells her partner in bed, “I don’t know why. It’s as if I were grieving.” Veronique’s life is depicted with greater depth than Weronika’s—the viewer witnesses more details and events in her everyday life, many of which conjure a certain nostalgia. Veronique is a music teacher, who teaches her students the very song Weronika died singing. In this way, the sound of the notes places Weronika’s spirit in the background of Veronique’s experience. Likewise, the style and framing of the shots, which repeatedly emphasize reflections, shadows, and light, are strikingly familiar to the aesthetic that portrayed Weronika’s experience.

Everything Veronique’s character does seems to be intuitively guided rather than logically decided, especially in regard to the complex romance she develops with the mysterious puppeteer, Alexandre. There is something deeply introspective about the way she interacts with the world; she pays attention to the signs, the coincidences, how things make her feel. Veronique is

instantly attracted to and entranced by Alexandre, who performs at her school; soon after she tells her father she’s in love, but can’t explain why. She follows a path of subtle clues Alexandre sends her, and eventually succeeds in finding him. However, the film does not feel centered around her romantic union with Alexandre. Instead, Veronique is on a journey to unite with her reflection, the shadow that eludes her consciousness, the double whose death she intuitively grieves. Laying on the bed with Veronique, Alexandre looks through the belongings in her bag. Examining the photographs taken in Krakow, he says, “That’s a beautiful photograph. And you, in that huge coat.” Veronique responds, “That’s not me.” Alexandre passes the photo to her, “Sure it’s you.” With a stunned expression she affirms, “That’s not my coat.” Veronique precedes to crumple the paper, tears falling from her eyes, overwhelmed by emotion.

Anticipating the moment of Veronique’s confrontation with Weronika, I expected clarity and resolution rather than vulnerability. At the same time, what I find most intriguing about the film is its lack of resolve. Kieślowski achieves a seemingly cohesive plot structure while omitting the information the viewer’s rational mind most desperately craves. There is no epiphany where the two women turn out to be twins, separated at birth; instead, the story remains shrouded in ambiguity. Though this lack of clarity may confuse or frustrate some viewers, I believe that it is Kieślowski’s way of honoring the unknown.

The viewer is forced to accept all that is beyond understanding, and Kieślowski shows there is great beauty in this surrender—flickers of light, shadow and reflection to be observed and delicate, intimate emotions to be felt. The film ignites the possibility that somewhere, there exists a double. Though an imaginative, unworldly premise, it hints at a form of magic that is always available. In the fullness of the present moment, Weronika and Veronique act upon their intuitions, authentically led by their feelings. The vulnerability that enables them to trust this inner guidance rewards them with glimpses of miracles— moments where reflections in the window subsume physical form, premonitions become reality.