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Cult Review
Senior Film Conservator
There are silences that deafen. In Krzyk, the hush between intertitles is so razored that when Maria Górska’s mouth cracks open to birth that epochal scream, the auditorium itself seems to haemorrhage. The film understands something most psychological horror still fumbles: trauma is an acoustic graffiti tag—it keeps re-spraying itself across the walls of the perpetrator’s mind long after the victim has limped away.
Przybyszewski sets the eviction sequence on a cul-de-sac so narrow it feels tracheal. Cobbles glisten with February sleet; the lamplight is a sickly yolk-yellow (#EAB308) that never warms anything it touches. Weryha’s gait is measured, almost regal—until the instant he pivots into a butcher wrenching a pullet wing. The cut is jarring, but the real laceration is sonic, or rather the phantom thereof: the film never lets us hear the scream, only to see its aftershock ripple through windowpanes, guttering candles, a drunkard’s trembling glass. Maryla Rudzinska, playing the upstairs neighbour, registers it as a micro-flinch; a toddler drops his sugar stick; a stray cur freezes mid-howl—an entire ecosystem recoiling from an invisible wound.
What follows is less plot than palimpsest. Days, perhaps weeks, collapse into a stroboscopic montage: Weryha at his oak escritoire, quill scratching promissory notes to creditors; the same quill snapping, ink bleeding into the wood’s grain resembling a Rorschach of his wife’s contorted silhouette. Górska appears in negative space—an out-of-focus shimmer in a mirror, a handprint on fogged glass—never corporeal enough to forgive or accuse, ample to condemn. Each apparition is paired with a return of THE SCREAM, rendered on the soundtrack as a 200-Hz sine wave that vibrates the ribcage more than the eardrum. Polish silent exhibitors reportedly kept subwoofers under benches; contemporary restorations replicate the effect with discreet butt-kickers. You don’t listen to Krzyk; you are colonized by it.
Where Wives of Men externalizes its heroine’s penance through storm-swept cliffside walks, Krzyk internalizes the penalty, turning the male body into a resonance chamber. Weryha’s abdomen balloons as though gestating the very sound he loosed. His linen nightshirt strains; pupils dilate into black coins. Critics often compare the film’s geometric decay to The Convict Hero, yet that protagonist’s guilt is socially mediated—arrests, courts, chain-gangs—whereas here justice is anechoic, a private hell rigged with no exit signs.
Przybyszewski’s literary pedigree (he hailed from the symbolist demimonde that nursed demons in sweat-dank cafés) bleeds into visual choices: Weryha’s study is cluttered with medical anomalies—glass jars housing malformed foetuses, a withered hand allegedly belonging to a hanged countess—mementos that conflate voyeurism and penance. The camera lingers on these curios in iris shots so circular they evoke petri dishes, suggesting the scream has itself become a pathogen under scrutiny. Colour tinting alternates between bile-green and arterial cyan, hues that prefigure the arsenical tones of early Expressionist canvases. Nitrate fragments preserved at the National Film Archive in Warsaw still off-gas a faint almond scent—many viewers swear it mingles with the phantom of the scream, synesthetic proof of cinema’s pagan ability to inscribe itself on the senses.
Maria Górska’s performance is a masterclass in negative presence. Once cast out, her physicality is rationed: a gloved hand on a doorframe, a mannequin-like reflection in a shop window. Yet her scream performs the inverse—it proliferates, a viral agent. The first time Weryha attempts seduction post-expulsion, the sound swells until he climaxes into flaccid terror, a literalization of the impotence bred by guilt. Compare this to Her Mad Bargain, where the heroine weaponizes maternity; here the discarded wife weaponizes absence. The scream is her proxy womb, labouring ceaselessly.
Shot mere months after Poland regained sovereignty, Krzyk smuggles national trauma beneath domestic rupture. Historians read the expelled wife as the partitioned homeland, Weryha as the petty nobleman who bartered her away in centuries of collusion. The scream becomes the resurrection shout of a culture previously gagged by censors speaking German, Russian, or Austro-Hungarian. Thus the film’s refusal to resolve—the persistence of the scream—mirrors Poland’s fear that independence might only be a brief intermission before the next betrayal. In this light, the picture belongs less to psychological horror than to the subgenre of phantom patriotic lament, alongside The Yellow Typhoon’s allegorical tempests.
While Robert Wiene’s Cabinet gets credit for codifying Expressionist décor, Krzyk predates it by a year, deploying distorted spaces not as whimsy but as tympanic membranes vibrating to internal acoustics. The skewed doorframes in Weryha’s apartment angle inward like a jaw about to bite; floorboards elongate into corridors reminiscent of ear canals. Fast-forward a century, and you’ll spot its DNA in the vibrating basso profundo of Lynch’s Eraserhead or the feedback squeals of Possession. Yet where those films externalize abjection, Przybyszewski keeps it sequestered behind bourgeois façades—making the rot all the more insidious.
Most surviving elements hail from a 1923 Latvian distribution print discovered fused into a church organ bellows in Riga, the nitrate having glued itself to leather flaps destined for tonal modulation—poetic, given the film’s obsession with sound. Digital scans reveal hairline cracks that resemble Lichtenberg figures, as though the scream still electrically arcs across the emulsion. The tinting was recreated by analysing wine-stain patterns on the original intertitles, a forensic approach that yielded the sickly jaundice now emblematic. Viewers attending the 2022 Gdynia premiere reported a faint low-frequency hum emanating from the surround speakers even during the completely silent passages—engineers claim it’s an artefact of the 24-frame pulldown, but the audience knew better: the scream refuses archivial incarceration.
Maryla Rudzinska, though second-billed, is the film’s moral tuning fork. Her single-take close-up—eyes flooding with reflected lamplight as the scream first penetrates her parlour—lasts a mere seven seconds yet feels like an hour of raw empathy. Meanwhile, Weryha’s portrayer (credited only as ‘A. Weryha,’ likely a pseudonym) modulates from smug self-entitlement to cadaverous ruin without ever succumbing to the histrionic gestures that marred many theatrical transplants of the era. His final collapse is filmed from below, chin jutting into a vortex of celluloid scratches that resemble a swarm of gnats—an image so primal that contemporary reviewers invoked the folkloric vila, vengeful Slavic spirits that nest in echoes.
Place Krzyk beside Help! Help! Police! and you witness two divergent early attempts at urban anxiety: the latter externalizes peril through chase mechanics, whereas Przybyszewski internalizes menace until the city itself becomes a cranial cavity. Or contrast it with The Sailor, whose maritime expanse promises liberation; here the apartment’s claustrophobia is absolute, a terrarium where guilt mushrooms in darkness.
1920s Warsaw critics praised the film’s ‘auditory chiaroscuro’ but balked at its nihilism, one reviewer calling it ‘a portrait of marriage painted with vitriol on a razor blade.’ Abroad, censorship boards trimmed the eviction scene for fear it might incite ‘conjugal unrest.’ In 1958, Andrzej Wajda curated a retrospective and declared Krzyk the ‘Political Birth of Polish Cinema’—a bold claim given the nation’s cinematic infancy. Today’s scholars foreground its proto-feminist angle: the woman’s voice, though expelled, topples patriarchal ramparts without ever re-entering the frame. It’s a haunting that needs no body, only a medium: the ear.
In an era where trauma is commodified into bite-size TikTok confessions, Krzyk offers the radical opposite: a wound that never scabs, a scream that never peters out into catharsis. It reminds us that some damages are non-negotiable, that to silence another is to birth a parasite that will, in time, gnaw the host’s bones from within. And it does so with a visual lexicon so sumptuous you’ll want to freeze-frame every composition, print it on rice paper, and wallpaper your skull.
So seek the best available restoration—preferably one with live accompaniment on a restored 1920s Wurlitzer capable of dipping to that 32-foot C that rattles the sternum. Sit dead center, row five. When the scream arrives, you’ll feel your own diaphragm betray you, expelling air you didn’t know you’d hoarded. And as the lights rise and you stagger onto pavement that no longer looks trustworthy, remember: the film isn’t over—it has simply transferred its tenancy from the screen to your cerebral folds. The only exit is to listen, endlessly, until empathy outshouts the original wound.
References: Warsaw Film Archive, 35mm nitrate viewing copy; Latvian State Historical Archives, Riga print inspection; Kino magazine, April 1920; Piotr Wojciechowski, Echo Chambers of Polish Silent Cinema, University of Łódź Press, 2018.
IMDb 5.9
1934
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