Metamorphosis In Reverse

Eternally enjoying Polanski's "The Tenant"

On the very day that I wrap up this essay, Roman Polanski turns 92 years old. Somehow his cinematic brilliance has always been there in my life. With very few duds under his belt, it’s been a life long journey of more or less absolute mastery, and one that’s presented fans like me with endless hours of movie-going joy. From ”Knife in the Water” (1962) to ”Palace” (2023), and via an existence filled with strife, trauma and disaster, Polanski has somehow managed to continually share his visions with us in a seemingly uncompromising way.

For me it began in Stockholm in 1979, when I was thirteen. My uncle snuck me in to a screening of Polanski’s ”The Tenant” (1976) and I was terrified in the best possible way. The mix of dark, beautiful cinema, sheer psychological terror, and Polanski as an actor as well, created some form of deep impact respect that’s been with me to this very day.

Based on Roland Topor’s 1964 novel of the same name, ”The Tenant” completes what critics often call Polanski’s early “Apartment Trilogy,” following “Repulsion” (1965) and “Rosemary’s Baby” (1968). Yet “The Tenant” stands apart not merely as an adaptation, but as a haunting meditation on identity, paranoia, and urban alienation that feels as much like autobiography as adaptation. And most likely because it is.