Krzysztof Kieslowski weighs in with some whole-cloth testimony on behalf of the science of physiognomy. Two identical women are born on the same day in different countries. As adults, they both wear their hair alike; they both are classical singers (with the voice emanating from nowhere near the mouth); they both are prone to tip their heads back and feel the atmosphere on their faces; they both have the wide-eyed, crinkle-browed, hypersensitive look of one who knows she's on camera. When the Polish one clutches her side in mid-performance and collapses dead on stage, the other one wakes up in France and decides to give up singing and to visit a cardiologist. Kieslowski, a flamboyant visualist, makes some very pretty pictures (the passing landscape outside a train window viewed upside-down in a crystal ball, a slowly rotating tea bag in a glass cup), but more often makes trite ones (the ambulatory statue, the midget, the marionettes, the Pan-European amber light). With Irene Jacob and Philippe Volter. (1991) — Duncan Shepherd
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