Mister T. (2019) - full transcript

A Polish Film Institute
Co-financed Production.

POLISH FILM INSTITUTE

This story is not based
on anyone's biography.

MAZOVIA WARSAW FILM COMMISSION

WARSAW, 1953

PROPELLER presents

starring.

MISTER T

The Secret Police have called me in.

Can I leave it here?

"DOLLS FOR ADULTS Wałach & Sons."



The Devil showed up in Warsaw today.

He said he was a substitute,
but never said for whom.

All applications and requests
should be filed with him:

That's what he claimed
with a cheerful smile.

We formed a long queue,
each with their own painful issue.

We were full of hope.

Anyone could touch our heart and face
with one warm glance.

None of us suspected
what we were waiting for.

ONE MONTH EARLIER

"THE BALL OF MODEL WORKERS
IS THE CELEBRATION OF THE WHOLE NATION"

And now it's time
for the highlight of the evening.

Please welcome

the true hero of our times.

The living legend.



The First Secretary
of the Central Committee

of the Polish United Workers' Party:

Comrade Bolesław Bierut!

BO-LEK! BO-LEK!

Citizens and comrades!

Model workers from towns and villages!

Creators and builders
of the Polish People's Republic!

I warmly welcome all of you
to the first carnival party this year.

It is a new socialist tradition
to exchange greetings today,

and not on New Year's Day,
an imperialistic holiday.

I wish you all the best

as we direct our thoughts
and feelings to Poland,

the Homeland and Mother of us all,

the recipient of our constant effort
and everyday arduous work.

BO-LEK! BO-LEK!

I don't want favours from the authorities
or crumbs from their vulgar table.

I prefer my trembling at dawn

and my meagre lunch
I'm not sure I can afford.

This diary is my final battle,

but I'm not going to throw stones.

I'm trying to survive,
sleep, and stand by.

I might succeed...

Go to bed, come on!

- I bought some paper.
- We'll talk tomorrow.

- Would you lend me your typewriter?
- I said I would. Go to sleep!

But paper matters most.

What can I write without paper?

Bloody nothing.

And I must be like you.

- Are your ambitions really so low?
- Low?

A journalist who's famous.

And unemployed.

Fuck that.

Open up! Militia!

Open up!

Good morning!

Good morning...

I missed you.

Anything else?

It's terribly cold.

I'm free until noon.

What are you writing?

A narrator.

What is that?

The voice that delivers information
in a literary work.

In novels or poems?

Poems.

Christ, the way you look at me...

Focus!

I know it!
In novels, there's a narrator.

In poems, there's a persona.

I have to write an essay on Positivism.

Then write it.

Will you dictate it for me
or shall I get an F?

Forget it.

"Manchuria".

Is this a good title for an epic poem?

It's perfect, Tadzio.

"HOUSE OF WRITERS AND ARTISTS"

- How's it going, Reporter Filak?
- I bought some typing paper.

- You told me.
- From before the war. That thick!

- You think you might lend me...?
- Do I have a choice?

For a few days. I'll practise my fingers
before I buy my own.

The march of progress.

A fountain pen?
It's no fucking school!

I'm going to lunch.

Enjoy your meal!

"Manchuria".

Is this a good title for an epic poem?

Not bad.

"READ BOOKS FROM THE USSR!"

Has any of my fellow colleagues
lost one zloty?

- What can I get you?
- I'll have the usual. The Chef's set.

Tomato soup and dumplings.

Perfect. And what is the price
of this feast?

You always ask,
but it's always the same: Seven zlotys.

I always hope
it will be cheaper one day.

He complains they won't publish him.

As if there was anything to publish.

He only cares about parties and women.
He leaves literature to us.

I can't blame him.

Now I'd bet on shagging too.
But in the past, on poetry!

May I join our leading reactionary?

How are things, Kazio?

Quite busy.

I'm having a new book published.
Another one will be turned into a film.

I'm going to the Cannes Festival.

And how are you?

A new scarf? I'm sure it's French.

No. The 1940 Kriegsmarine.

Ah.

- I have an offer for you.
- Well?

Come to my place tonight.

You'll meet a few ladies in nylon.

We'll have a drink.

"DOLLS FOR ADULTS Wałach & Sons."

Define a noun.

Go on! You know it!

Kasia, what is a noun?

The teacher wants to see
what you know.

Dad took a long time
to explain to you what a noun is.

A noun is...

She knows that!

- Tell me or you won't get dinner!
- Honey, don't get upset.

Dad has a heart condition.

A noun is...?

She's an idiot at school
and she can't even speak!

She can! She's simply upset.

It always happens with a new teacher.

Kasia, say anything.

The teacher should hear
you can speak at all.

If you don't speak,
he won't teach you.

I'm very sorry,
but I won't take this job.

However,

may I possibly use your bathroom
to wash my socks?

Dear colleagues, let me remind you
that the term "substance"

has been used to define many concepts
of the Absolute Being.

According to Parmenides,

the Being is primordial,

unchanging, complete, and indivisible.

While Spinoza adds
it's eternal and supremely perfect.

Bollocks!

The term "substance" has long lost
its original meaning.

Not to fucking mention its attributes.

Are you sure they're fine?

More than fine.

The morning shift is always taken
by retired philosophy professors,

while the night one by doctors.

If you want to hear
about the kidneys or the prostate,

come back after 10 p.m.

Your lines are brilliant.

They might get published.

The Czytelnik Publishing
House has a new director.

New meaning better?

A lady comrade with two MA
degrees, who loves motor sports.

I guess I stand
a chance, don't I?

With your ear for rhythm?
You always do.

Just keep believing.

How's your writing
for the drawer going on?

- I've got a certain idea.
- That's good.

I'm not so sure.

It's revolutionary and long.

Even 500 pages.

Perfect bedtime reading.

More like toilet reading.

Zbigniew, can you lend me
a fifty for flowers?

I got a C for Positivism,
but I could've got an A!

- If you had written it for me.
- Boots!

- Why aren't you at school?
- Too cold.

Did you write the overdue essay
on Słowacki?

A long time ago.

Show me.

I don't have my notebook on me.

- But I spent all night on that crap.
- So you must remember it perfectly.

Tell me.

You think I learnt it by heart?
Are you mad?

Get out.

"DOLLS FOR ADULTS Wałach & Sons."

Good evening.

Mister T is punctual as usual.

You shouldn't have gone
to all this expensive trouble.

The second issue published yesterday.

Sensational news, trivia...
That's what I like.

Not overly educational. Bravo, Kazio!

How did you manage to publish it?

The communists have realized
they can't be boring

when talking to young people.

We just need to find a compromise

between what young people want
and what we want them to want.

You can earn a lot of money.

There are bright prospects

for talented people
who speak foreign languages.

Even little rebels...
A guy like you can't waste his talent.

You think I am?

You're not realising your full potential.

In this country, everyone has to screw up.

To varying degrees. That's life.

"Looking for the Kon-Tiki God."

Here, I'd put...

Here, I'd put
a photo of a woman,

Black or Asian,
wearing very few clothes.

Or even completely naked.

A pioneering idea.

Young people will appreciate

internationalism
with a human face and arse.

Hello!

- What's wrong?
- My private students are dropping out.

A watch is just a watch, but...

I wouldn't say no to your pen.

My pen is not for sale. Not yet.

Watches are hard to sell now.
I won't buy it.

Please...

- Two hundred.
- Fine.

It will be fine when
I get your pen.

How about a typewriter?

I'm scared.

Even though I pretend I'm not.

I'm a master
at keeping up the pretence

so that I can live in this system.

I have no achievements or prospects.
I feel like an anonymous castaway.

I miss real writing,
but all I can afford is these scribbles.

And I'm ashamed

to be waiting for success,
like a light on the horizon.

It's fucking freezing in here!

The heating turns on at 5 p.m.
How's Kraków?

The heating turns on at 5 a.m.

We've got both:
Socialism and tile stoves.

But you guys have only
socialism and deep shit,

in which you have started
to settle down.

- Gherkins.
- Thank your wife for me.

- How's the "Tygodnik Powszechny" team?
- Poorly. They're starving.

But they're looking
into the future,

preserving the idea of secular Catholicism
for Varsovians like you.

Dear Stefan, is there a future at all?

We are not analysing
the political situation

with unauthorised people.

But you're planning to publish
some banned books.

Yes, like "Winnie-the-Pooh".

So perhaps I might stand a chance
of publishing my Kraków essays?

You know, maybe they were good
a while ago...

But now we aim at lighter literature.

This is what the Politburo
and society expect.

- I'll have a perfect book for you.
- Will you indeed?

A crime action novel
about fighting terrorists

in Warsaw rising from the ruins.

Terrorists?

In the Polish People's Republic?

It's your fevered imagination talking.

Is that bad?

This is not a relevant subject.

And what do they do?

Those terrorists?

They plan to seize power.

- In our country?
- And they prepare an attack.

They want to blow up the Palace.

The Palace?

What Palace?

You are mad.

- Not at all.
- You want to blow up...

our Palace?

Yes!

Do you have any idea...

what Comrade Bierut
will think about it?

He might like it.

No!

No...

For the real aim of literature

is to present great
undertakings of Socialism,

portraits of Party leaders,

and heroic model workers.

As the name suggests,

socialist realism reflects reality...

and shows people
as they really are:

Beautiful and happy.

And the world
that surrounds them is also...

Beautiful!

Beautiful, with no wars,
conflicts, suffering or sadness.

Oi, Iruś, Iruś...

Where do you get so much saliva from?

You know...

I do, I do...

There's something
that bothers me, honey.

Yes?

I've learnt someone wants
to blow up the Palace.

The royal one?

No.

This one.

Darling, what the fuck
are you talking about?

I wasn't...

alert enough.

As a result, my article
on an alleged decrease

in the pig and cattle population...

contained judgement.

Louder, please!

Contained false judgement,

which betrays
the proper principles of the Party

and challenges its authority.

In consequence, it delays...

our march to the bright future.

I can't find any excuse for myself.

And I ask you, Comrades...

for the heaviest punishment.

And you, Comrade Filak?

What would you like to say?

Go on, don't be shy!

Why do you want to be a journalist?

I'd like my dad...

to be proud of me.

Well...

That's fine. Sit down.

Let me remind you
that the political decision-makers

have announced a novel competition.

The first prize
is a Warszawa passenger car.

Non-drivers can win a holiday
in the People's Republic of Bulgaria.

You can obviously get additional points
for the peasant or worker background.

Therefore, Comrades, try hard!
Golden Sands are waiting.

Hooligans are everywhere.

Even old women get raped and pestered.

And our Militia, where are they?!

At a Health and Safety training.

Why don't you write about it?

I haven't been writing for a year!

Really?

And even if I did, they
wouldn't run it anyway.

Bad times...

How's your daughter?

When are you going to be a grandpa?

At the beginning of April.

You should also settle down.

Start a family.

Adopt a dog at least.

Great idea, Mr Zygmunt!

A dog! This is exactly what I need.

- Thank you for the washbasin.
- You're welcome.

And?

It sucks.

I spent all day on this.

You have to catch the readers' attention
with the first paragraph.

Seduce them, lure them with foreplay.

With what?

This is a totally incredible story.

If I hadn't been standing
behind that door,

I wouldn't have believed it myself...

This is the opening paragraph.
You see?

Don't lay all your cards
on the table at once.

Why the door?

I don't know.

But it sounds promising,
while a promise is an essential element

of the affair
between the reader and the writer.

There's no better pocketknife!

It's so easy: Take his life!
Only a fiver!

How come you've got nothing
to write about?

The subjects are there for the asking.

- Like toothbrushes?
- Precisely.

About the communist system
persecuting our teeth.

Let's look at the facts.

The only type of toothbrush
produced in Poland hurts your gums.

So, to brush your teeth according
to the self-preservation instinct,

you have to buy toothbrushes
from shady sellers.

Where do they get this stuff?
It's smuggled.

People risk spending years in jail
to bring a bit of nylon into Poland.

And they want us to pay... how much?

Eighty apiece, my fellow countrymen.

If you buy three, I can give you
a helmet from Monte Cassino.

See?

That equals ten lunches
in a factory canteen.

- Are you sure it's a good subject?
- Isn't it?

From a toothbrush to the system,
to the human nature.

A good metaphor
always helps you gain popularity.

- Where?
- In the West.

They like such figures of speech.
You just need to learn languages.

But I suck even at Polish.

Read more poetry.

Boots!

How's school?

It's the big freeze,
classes have been called off.

Again? But we're having a thaw.

But the night's cold stays in the walls.

- Are you joking?
- I swear the school's closed.

So you should have gone home to study.

But I already know everything.

Do you? When did Marcel Proust live?

- You're leaving.
- It's pointless.

That's not how I imagined
lessons with a famous author.

- It's your problem.
- I thought my problems were yours.

- Let go of me!
- You have to learn, girl!

That's why you come here!
Other things happen along the way.

Don't shout.

That's not how you speak to a student.
Any student.

Especially a student
who's fallen in love with her teacher.

What's going on?

I'm late.

"DOLLS FOR ADULTS Wałach & Sons."

Who said you could sit down?

Now you can sit down.

Filak, who got you a room
in the House of Writers?

A room...

A room...

The key. For fuck's sake,
I forgot or lost it.

- I apologise.
- Who got you the key to that dump?

You did, Comrade.

Do you know what you should be and do
to settle in Warsaw?

- I do.
- You don't know shit.

How about your job at "The Tourist"?

It was also you, Comrade.

So, did I make a bad choice for you?

Or maybe you prefer "Kultura Paryska"?

- No. No...
- See?

No one reads this "Tourist" crap,
but the money keeps coming in.

Is it appropriate in a socialist state?

Is it or is it fucking not?!

I guess not.

Then why are you trying
to fuck me like a cheap whore?

Why don't I know everything
about your neighbour?

What he eats and how often he shits?

Comrade, I'd have to follow him
everywhere.

To the loo, the Writers' Club,
the SPATiF Club...

That would make him suspicious.

We have our people at SPATiF.

Focus on the wardrobe and your ear.

I give you one month.

If you don't bring me specifics,

I'll find a prospective owner
of the key

that you've lost.

And you'll go back to your shithole.

Or you won't.

You'll go even further.
I'll make it happen.

The little bitch that comes to his place,
does he shag her?

Nah... He teaches her for her finals.

Hasn't it crossed your mind
he recruits all these girls as spies?

"Manchuria".

Is this a good title for an epic poem?

It's perfect, Tadzio.

Get over here, mister!

- "QUIET HOURS: 10 p.m.
- 6 a.m."

Hello.

The administrators ask
if you're writing anything.

- It's not their business.
- On the contrary.

This hotel is only for those who write.

- I pay the rent.
- No need to.

All you need is write.
The administrators will accept it.

But to pay and not write...

They think it's a fucking disgrace.
So do I.

Are you being serious?

I'm just warning you.
You can do what you want.

People did get evicted
for being bums...

Filak, no more beating
around the fucking bush.

I'll tell you
what your buddy, Mister T is planning.

Go to the window.

Peek under the roller blind.

What do you see?

- The world...
- Meaning?

Buildings... Streets, people...

Right.

And in the distance?

- More buildings...
- Focus, will you?!

The Palace... Can you see it?

- The gift from the Soviet nation.
- I can see it.

Right.

Then how is Mister T linked
to this magnificent gift?

Maybe he'd like to...

He'd like to...

He'd like to live there.

The Editor-in-Chief
is a demanding Commie,

but he lets us be.

So, you're gonna write something.

Some catchy action
so that people like it.

And "The Tourist" belongs to us!

So you write your name
and I write about mountains?

Mountains or...

And we split the money fifty-fifty.
Gotta pay the bills, right?

Especially now,
with a child on the way.

You were talking loudly...

I heard you through the... wall.

Can you hear other things too?

No.

"LENIN IN PORONIN"

"On the sightseeing trail
of the great revolutionaries."

You didn't even hear me come in.

Look at me.

You know...

It was a false alarm.

You don't have to worry.

So?

As a reward,
can I go to the Press Ball?

First, I want to see
your end-of-term report.

Can't we arrange it differently?

No.

And who creates the world in a novel?

The narrator.

What kind of narrator?

Omniscient like God.

Come on, I know it.

The first-person narrator belongs
to this world and is the protagonist.

- Am I making any progress?
- Hardly any.

Don't be so grumpy.

You're underestimating me.
I'm your destiny.

Don't use words you don't understand.

You once said it yourself
right before the orgasm.

Your hands are terribly dirty.

What do you expect
after eight classes?

Wash yourself.
The tap's already working.

You want to remake me
like Pygmalion remakes Gonorrhoea.

Galatea.

You don't care about my feelings.
You're an arrogant pervert.

And an old freak!

Oh?

I don't understand you, mate.

You're sculpting a wonderful woman.

But not for yourself.

You have to write more.

It will increase your economic status
and recognition.

That's my dream.

You see?

They don't publish me,
so I keep staring at the ceiling.

It's also a sort of pleasure though.

If I didn't know you,
I'd think you were a classic agitator.

I beg your pardon?

You know I'm joking.

They're going to break me one day.

Not with beating, but with speaking,
soft and warm like rotting.

God, if You exist,
set me free from my need

for privileges and luxuries
or take me without delay.

Now, please welcome...

The guardian spirit of Polish literature

and its first reviewer.

An exceptionally sensitive

and diligent reader,

who can notice the mistakes

that theoretically don't exist.

An admirer of innovation in poetry

and tradition in prose.

Dear Journalists!

Honourable Artists!

Experts on the phrase, rhymes
and adjectives!

Please welcome

the First Secretary
of the Central Committee

of the Polish United Workers' Party:

Comrade Bolesław Bierut!

"POLISH JOURNALISTS SUPPORT
THE PEASANT AND WORKER GOVERNMENT"

Artists and journalists,
writers and poets

should forge an alliance
with the working class.

This is our current goal.

Therefore write, Comrades! Write!

The Polish People's Republic
needs your imagination.

Write the novel of the century,
better than anything else so far.

The worker and peasant government
wishes you good luck.

Go and join the letters,

while we build bridges,
roads and factories.

Our socialist realism will bloom
only if we toil together.

I want to drink so fucking badly,
but I can't.

I beg your pardon?

The doctor's orders.

Fucking cirrhosis.

It's hereditary.

But this...

No prick will take it away from me.

It kicks arse, doesn't it?

Bloody weed...

it is strong.

I got it from the First Secretary
of Uzbekistan.

They plant it as part
of their national tradition.

So I've been thinking...

Maybe I should issue a decree
to do the same.

To seed the area
around Warsaw with weed.

That would secure you
a place in history.

Instead of one fucking thousand schools
for one thousand years of our state.

- Why not link these two?
- Yes!

For Poland.

For our beloved homeland.

Everyone thinks I hate it.

I'm not everyone.

Well said.

I'll keep it in mind, Comrade.

And now fuck off.
I want to take a piss.

Is that what you call
writing at night?! Bravo!

Fucking intellectuals!

Parasites! And whoremongers!

Psst!

Psst! Psst!

They came and asked
the neighbours about you.

- Who did?
- They didn't say their names.

You must get yourself a dog.

You must!

You want to know what freedom is?

Freedom.

The sun disappeared behind the horizon
as the sky turned bronze.

Lenin finished talking.

The room was filled with silence
as deep as if everyone had died.

Yet, Piotr knew it wasn't death
that caught up with them,

but pangs of conscience.

These pangs of conscience
were offered like bread or amber

by this wonderful, modest man,
whom they were watching now.

Lenin's simple words
finally broke the silence:

Turn on the lights,
I want to see you.

Someone reached for the lamp
and soon the room looked as usual.

Piotr knew, however,
that it was only an illusion

and since this moment on,
nothing would ever be the same.

Vladimir Ilyich stared at the window.

The sky over Poronin
had already darkened,

while women in neighbouring
huts prepared supper.

The world of highlanders
was changing for the better.

Wonderful.

"THE YOUNG JOURNALISTS' ASSOCIATION
IS THE PARTY'S AVANT-GARDE"

Wonderful, Comrade.

You have a great talent.

Don't waste it.

Comrade!

Come here, please.

We're looking for Mr Kozera.
He ordered a wall map from us.

Beautiful!

That's exactly what I wanted.

It's big. The best paper
from Czechoslovakia.

Louder, please!

A huge map! You can see everything!

It's beautiful!

- Pity it shows the Soviet Union.
- There are no other maps.

- But there will be!
- No!

You will start to print them. Bravo!

Look at our young Poles!

They will print everything.
Everything!

There will never be other maps!
Never!

All right!

All you need is a dog.
Every young person should have one.

- What dog?
- This big.

A dog is a man's best friend.

It will never leave him. Never!

They brought a summons
when you were out.

"SUMMONS The Secret Police."

The Secret Police have called me in.

Can I leave it here?

"DOLLS FOR ADULTS Wałach & Sons."

Do you have a family?

No.

- A job?
- Not a permanent one.

There you go. Now we've got a problem.

Idling, meeting whores...

That's a pity.

I prefer meeting whores
to intellectuals.

I understand your approach.

So, maybe you've heard
something interesting?

Meaning?

Like, there's something big going on...

What exactly?

My adult age, the age of defeat,
has begun to exhaust me.

I'd rather lose it like teeth
and go senile in peace.

Yet, it's impossible...
Male urges won't leave me alone.

Between two evils,
I don't know which is worse:

An unproductive erection

or the communist system
outside the window.

Secret Police, open up!

Secret Police, open up!

It wouldn't hurt to air this pigsty.

There's a problem...

The window...

is broken. Totally.

That hack writer from Room 20...

Did you see him leave?

Did he take anything with him?

No.

Maybe he left something?

Papers?

Papers?

Blueprints. Architectural plans.

Photographs perhaps?

He didn't leave anything.

Who's his closest friend here?

Nobody.

He's a poser.

Pretending to be better
than he really is.

A lousy drinker. No one likes him.

I'll read you something.

Over the green line of the meadow,

the sky spread its wings like a kite,

while the wind swept through the land

as if it had been the beginning of love

and not an autumn gale.

And what do you think?

Beautiful.

Really?

I hoped you'd say
something interesting.

And what did I get?

No specifics.

That's not how I imagined
a meeting with an artist.

And you think we don't know.

We do.

We know everything.

We know you listen
to Western radio stations.

We know you go to illegal concerts
of reactionary music.

And we know you have
a scarf of the Nazi Kriegsmarine.

We know everything.

I use the scarf to clean my shoes
and jazz is the music of the oppressed.

The oppressed from America.

Exactly, it's played by black musicians,
descendants of slaves...

Whatever.

Does it mean
you don't fucking like the system?!

There's a law against it.

How did you like the gherkins
Kisielewski brought you from Kraków?

The walls have ears.

That's why you won't deceive us.

You won't.

We know.

What?

That you're scheming.

You're scheming
against the people's state.

But the people's state
is like mother and father.

If necessary,
it's gonna spank your arse

to point you in the right direction.

Sign it.

What's this?

A statement of commitment.

You commit to keeping
this conversation to yourself.

Now fucking sign it.

"Mister T."

You're here.

My parents were happy together.

So could we.

You're taking your finals in a month.

My work will be done.

There's nothing else I can give you.

I know.

I'm giving it back.

Agitator!

A pathetic Don Juan
and a cheap informer.

The worst sort.

Can you repeat? I must have misheard.

For the third time?

If you refuse to cooperate,
you know what's coming for you?

Those you grassed on
will meet you in jail.

And they'll screw you nice and clean.

Fuck that.

Filak, Filak...

I thought you were my bosom friend,
while you're treating me like this?

You won't last long behind bars.

You're gonna go to waste...

Why not enjoy your life?

So, you shut up all of a sudden?

I have no gift for writing.

I'm sorry...

Investigation?

Frustration.

They don't print my articles
or publish my books.

But they won't stop at that.

Now they're trying find wickedness
I'm incapable of.

You know what? You must get married.

Then you'll be able
to screw the system.

To focus on your family
and long walks.

You think I wouldn't like to?

But to whom?

A liar and a first-rate slob.

I might end up killing her
over a dirty sock.

But you love her.

That's why I won't ruin her life.

Would you take a look
at my new rhymes?

Sure.

Zbigniew...

Have you heard about
"Dolls for Adults"?

Of course.

Every respectable poet
has one at home.

You too?

I can't afford it, but I'd like to.

But...

What do you need that doll for?
I don't think it's for...

On the contrary, my friend.

On the contrary.

The Devil showed up in Warsaw today.

He said he was a substitute,
but never said for whom.

All applications and requests
should be filed with him:

That's what
he claimed with a cheerful smile.

We formed a long queue,
each with their own painful issue.

We were full of hope.

Anyone could touch our heart and face
with one warm glance.

None of us suspected
what we were waiting for.

I want to say goodbye.

I'm leaving.

Thank you.

"NOWY CZYTELNIK:
A publishing house."

It's going to be a crime story
and a picture

of life in Warsaw after the war.

A book to read on the train and in bed,
with no intellectual content.

I like that.

Apparently, you have
first-hand information.

You mean the criminal underworld?

I mean the Secret Police.

Writers look for consultants
even among them.

Or in a password-only jazz club.

Please excuse me for a moment.

Have a seat, please.

First Secretary Comrade Bierut

is impressed
by a certain contemporary work.

He told me
he'd like to ask your advice.

My advice?

Yes.

The First Secretary
values your judgement.

- My judgement?
- It's a detail.

Quite important though.

Is "Manchuria" a good title
for an epic poem?

In my humble opinion,
it's absolutely perfect.

Comrade Bierut thinks so too.

We will sign a contract
for this little book of yours.

No need to put it off.
Let's do it right away.

"DOLLS FOR ADULTS Wałach & Sons."

What's the title?

"The Good One."

No doubt.

So?

In memory of KAZIMIERZ KUTZ

directed by

written by

producer

line producer

director of photography

production designers

editor

costume designer

make-up artist

sound design by

music by

production manager

translated by Magdalena Cedro
subtitled by Benno Zerbst