directed by Roman Polanski

at the Brattle Theater

Wednesday February 9th at 3:45

and 7:45 p.m.

Imagine the following scenario: while viewing an apartment, you are told by the housekeeper that the previous tenant tried to commit suicide and are shown the precise spot where she had jumped through the window to lacerate herself on the glass roof below. Do you:

(a)Say "thank you very much" and go straight back to the realtor's office?

(b)Move into the apartment with trepidation and try to forget its history as quickly as possible?

(c)Slap down a huge cash deposit, rush round immediately to see the previous tenant in hospital, and after her death, entertain yourself by dressing up in her clothes, complete with full make up and wig (by the way, you're male)?

Well, at this stage it doesn't take much intuition to guess that the eponymous tenant, Trokovsky (Roman Polanski), runs with the third option during his Parisian flathunt. Which would be fine, were the film to intrigue us by exploring the roots of his fixation with the dead woman. But unfortunately the only exploring we do is of the gloomy apartment and of the toilet opposite--where a series of unknown characters stand motionless for hours, staring at our hero. As these onlookers pushed Trokovsky steadily round the bend, the film's unanswered questions drove me equally mad with curiosity: Why doesn't Trokovsky just move into another apartment? Why does he always keep the lights in his apartment turned off, so that the audience stares for the most part at a blank grey screen? And most of all, why is the dead girl's gorgeous friend Stella (Isabelle Adjani) so determined to get the thoroughly unattractive Trokovsky into bed?

The frustration these questions caused was scarcely allayed by Sven Nykvist's captivating photography. Familiar locations--the stairwell or facade of an apartment building--are transformed into eerie backdrops by the weird angles Nykvist chooses. Indeed, the film's vision of Paris charms the viewer from the neighborhood cafe where Trokovsky has his morning hot chocolate to the seedy bars and cinemas he visits with Stella. Details, like the outrageous flares, pendants and sheepskin jackets she wears, are convincingly retro. The only contextual problem is the accents. Ironically, the only French-sounding actor in the mainly American and British cast, Polanski, plays the only non-French character (Trokovsky is Polish).One is tempted to wonder why, in this case, the film is set in Paris at all. But (silly me) we ought to be used to unanswered and unanswerable questions by now.

Leonard Maltin's review of this film tagged it a "sure bet to become [a] cult item over the years." The surreal disconnection of its random events does give the movie a flavor similar to cult director David Lynch's work (presumably why it has been billed with his "Eraserhead"). But Polanski, both as actor and director, lacks the energy and abandon that have made Lynch's films so successful. Instead of being exhilarating, Trokovsky's illogical behaviour is simply frustrating. For those obsessed with the surreal The Tenantwill be an intruguing period piece. For the rest of us, it's hardly worth it for a few great shots of Polanski in a dress.