In the realm of film criticism, evaluating the latest work by controversial director Roman Polanski is akin to traversing a minefield fraught with seemingly impossible questions. Can his movies be assessed objectively in light of his criminal record and tarnished reputation? Is it permissible to admire a work of art while condemning aspects of the artist’s personal life? Should Polanski even be permitted to continue making movies? These are the quandaries faced by any critic brave enough to delve into the realm of Roman Polanski’s newest film.
Polanski, now in his 90th year, has a storied career with several masterpieces to his name, such as “Chinatown,” “Rosemary’s Baby,” “The Tenant,” and “Repulsion.” His debut feature, “Knife in the Water,” released over 60 years ago, even earned him his first Oscar nomination. However, his most recent offering, “The Palace,” leaves little room for ambiguity. It is unequivocally the worst film in his extensive filmography, according to the critic at hand. With over 23 features under Polanski’s belt, this is no small claim.
“The Palace” takes place in a luxurious Swiss Alps resort during the eve of the new millennium in 1999. This ensemble comedy, unfortunately, fails to hit the mark, featuring a cast of detestable rich individuals celebrating the dawn of the new millennium with an abundance of champagne, fireworks, and an all-you-can-eat caviar cart. Polanski then subjects them to a deluge of repulsive imagery such as vomit, urine, dog excrement, a male porn star’s broken nose, an endlessly erect deceased Texas billionaire, and copious amounts of plastic surgery. Even Mickey Rourke, who portrays the most repugnant character of them all, contributes to the overall unpleasantness.
Perhaps this excessive critique of the upper class is Polanski’s attempt to divert attention away from himself, highlighting characters more despicable than the general perception of the director himself. This could be the only possible excuse for the grotesque and forgettable nature of this film. It premiered in Venice a mere four years after Polanski triumphed with “An Officer and a Spy,” a robust historical thriller that subtly addressed his numerous detractors.
“The Palace” lacks this underlying context, failing to elicit laughter in its attempts at comedy, even resorting to computer-generated penguins in a desperate bid for humorous effect. The screenplay, co-written by Polanski, Ewa Piaskowska, and former collaborator Jerzy Skolimowski, falls flat in its pursuit of comedic gold. Scenes that may have aimed for hilarity, such as French actress Fanny Ardant fainting after her Chihuahua defecates on her bed, or John Cleese’s character requesting oral sex from his much younger wife after gifting her a priceless Chopard necklace, fall embarrassingly flat. The film is peppered with similarly unfunny and crass attempts at humor.
Polanski’s filmography does possess a dark and surreal brand of humor, as exemplified in “Chinatown.” However, he has rarely ventured into straight comedy, with the exceptions of the rarely seen “What?” and the cheeky horror spoof “The Fearless Vampire Killers.” These films, when compared to “The Palace,” resemble the pinnacle of comedic genius delivered by the likes of Ernst Lubitsch, Billy Wilder, and Charlie Chaplin in their prime.
“The Palace” also attempts to function as an upstairs-downstairs social satire, with the sympathetic hotel staff juxtaposed against the obnoxious guests they serve. However, the hotel employees are neither funny nor interesting, and the film predominantly revolves around their interactions with their wealthy patrons.
Shot by Polanski’s loyal cinematographer, Pawel Edelman, and accompanied by Alexandre Desplat’s playful score, “The Palace” unfolds in the prestigious Swiss ski resort of Gstaad, where the director has periodically resided since seeking asylum there in 1978. It is apparent that Polanski holds a dim view of the resort’s affluent clientele, and it would have been more thematically appropriate had the film concluded with their fiery demise as a result of a Y2K disaster.
Instead, the film concludes with a series of haunting images in which the characters gather on the rooftop to witness the New Year’s Eve fireworks illuminating the Alps. Polanski seamlessly cuts between the pyrotechnics and the despairing expressions of the rich guests, their artificially enhanced faces bathed in flashes of red and blue. This imagery evokes a sense of despair reminiscent of a painting by Hieronymus Bosch. However, the film’s final shot features the Chihuahua engaging in intercourse with the computer-generated penguin, eschewing any lasting impact or meaning. If “The Palace” were to represent Polanski’s final cinematic endeavor, it would be a tragic conclusion to a career that includes several of modern cinema’s greatest triumphs.
Ultimately, “The Palace” embodies a rich man’s world devolving into a disheartening mess, and not just on a narrative level. It is a film that is utterly devoid of joy, leaving audiences with an unforgettable experience of cinematic disappointment. The director has never been one to present an uplifting vision of life, but “The Palace” takes negativity to an extreme, delivering a film that ultimately amounts to nothing more than a steaming pile of excrement.