#the third part of the night

[determinate-negation]

The Third Part of the Night (Trzecia część nocy) dir. Andrzej Żuławski, 1971

[honeygleam]

trzecia część nocy (1971) dir. andrzej żuławski

[wetgeliscasualinterval]

The Third Part of the Night (1971) Directed by Andrzej Żuławski

[smillingcartoonist]

The Films of Andrzej Zulawski:

The Third Part of Night (1971)

The Devil (1972)

That Most Important Thing: Love (1975)

Possesion (1981)

The Public Woman (1984)

Mad Love (1985)

On the Silver Globe (1988)

My Nights are More Beautiful Than Your Days (1989)

Boris Godunov (1989)

Blue Note (1991)

Szamanka (1996)

La Fidelite (2000)

Cosmos (2015)

[cinemphatic]

The Third Part of the Night (1971) dir Andrzej Żuławski

[falsenote]

The Third Part of the Night (1971)

[maggiecheungs]

THE THIRD PART OF THE NIGHT (1971) dir. Andrzej Żuławski

[boddainz]

[sloshed-cinema]

The Third Part of the Night [Trzecia część nocy] (1971)

A vaccine is perhaps the most succinct distillation of blood as a symbol of both life and death. Its solution often includes something which in an altered form could be considered harmful, and yet it is intended to protect life by granting immunity. Its preparation, certainly in the early days of discovery, required a sort of violence. The vaccine is a contribution to the community brought about by sacrifice. In the occupied Poland of The Third Part of the Night, war rages, but the threat of Typhus remains strong, a pestilence in the landscape further contributing to the apocalyptic feel in the deserted streets. Loss defines existence here. The film opens with Michał witnessing the death of his wife, mother, and child, and violence can burst out at any moment: people are gunned down at random in the street or herded into vans, Resistance members pursued and assassinated. Amidst all of this senseless violence, the most that Michał can do is to allow his body to be used as a feeding ground for lice as part of a Typhus vaccine development project. It’s horrible, thankless work, leaving the participants itchy, feverish, and restless.

It’s this feverishness which contributes to the psychological uncertainty which hangs over The Third Part of the Night like a pall. Doubles abound. Following his wife’s death, he finds another woman who appears to be her doppelgänger. His attempts at forming a family with her and her recently delivered baby are haunted by images of his wife and son, who also appears in a portrait in Michał’s father’s home. A man mistaken for Michał is tortured and lies battered in a hospital, something the man himself confesses he wouldn’t be strong enough to handle. The pervasive guilt—at the death of his family, at his failed attempts to help Resistance efforts—lead to a total mental collapse. Underscoring all of this guilt and collective loss is pervasive Biblical imagery. The film opens and closes with quotations from Revelations, which returns at various points throughout. How could a God who so loved the world allow for all of the suffering brought by Nazi invasion? Michał’s father prays against God in the opening, damning Him for causing such loss, but elsewhere people pray for better outcomes. In the close, the father recites from the Requiem Mass as he lights his manuscript pages on fire, presumably an act of self-immolation. Fleeing the Gestapo in desperation at the closing moments, Michał finds one final double when he pulls back a corpse’s shroud. He looks at the face of death and sees himself, perhaps the only outcome possible in this sort of world.

Andrzej Korzyński’s intentionally and blatantly electronic score is an interesting choice in this WWII film. Leaning in on electric guitar and jazzy vibraphones throughout throws this out of step with the aesthetics of the period and centers it more as a cerebral exploration of this Poland thrust into chaos than a wholly literal one.

An absolutely incredible debut feature from Andrzej Żuławski, even in this first gesture it’s possible to see motifs and concepts which are of interest to him that he explores time and again. Doubling pervades his stories, and he never met a spiral staircase that he didn’t love. There’s a sort of existential psychosexual angst here which anticipates Possession, and the kinetic camera movements anticipate the breakdown scene in that Cold War film or the grandiose battles of On the Silver Globe. While the athletic use of camera is impressive on a technical level, it also perfectly inhabits the mental space the narrative is trying to create. The camera almost recoils at the sight of blood during acts of violence, and Michał’s final breakdown sees the camera nearly as lost and desperate as its subject, whirling about and finding a melding of every space and major figure that has been encountered before. Żuławski here seems to declare that he his here to make just the kind of movie that he wants to make, no matter how often those projects get banned or their productions halted. Because if the censors are gonna make it that damn hard for you to release a film, might as well make it one hell of a commanding humdinger.

THE RULES

SIP

A spiral staircase appears in a scene.

Lice are mentioned.

Someone prays or quotes Scripture.

BIG DRINK

Someone takes a pot-shot at Michał.

A doppelgänger appears in a scene.

[camphorror]

The juxtaposition of these two scenes, the disposability of people versus the importance of the lice, is absolutely haunting

The Third Part of the Night (Trzecia część nocy) - dir. Andrzej Żuławski, 1971

[vincekris]

The Third Part of the Night - Andrzej Zulawski, 1971

[naffeclipse]

Warm Fangs

Naga!Sun x Reader. Sickness.

Prev

As you sleep, the fever worsens. Chills hit you with a violent shudder. The heat from the sickness flees under the quaking cold. You moan softly, curling up tighter. A soft hiss shushes you but you can’t find anything warm, anything warm at all.

The smooth brush of scales loosens from around you. The outside cold slips away from your feverish skin but stays within.

“It hasn’t broken yet,” Moon murmurs distantly. Cold fingertips brush your hair, damp from sweat, away from your forehead. A whine leaves you. You hate how pathetic it sounds inside your head.

“Oh, no. I was afraid it might linger with our poor lily pad,” Sun lowers his voice but he’s not as quiet as his brother, holding a stage whisper more than an actual whisper. You might have smiled if you weren’t bothered by the mottled moonlight giving way to a blue-bright early morning sky. 

It doesn’t feel warm. The sun is supposed to reheat the earth and take away the frost filling your chest with a shivering revolt.

A few quiet exchanges slip away in your near unconsciousness. Gingerly, you become weightless, lifted into the air like a feather before pressed into other arms. Heat, raw and covering, finally touches your body. You breathe out a low sigh, eyelids fluttering to peek up at the source of the heat. The form softly sways as you’re carried away.

“It’s going to be alright,” Sun hums. He looks down at you, his spiky frills flaring around his head in golden hues before the shadow of the cave eclipses the morning sun. “Don’t move, my water lily, you’re still sick.”

“Hmm, I’m fine,” you half moan. Your eyes fall close again. A tender soreness soaks into every muscle, especially at your neck and your shoulders. The deep, deep ache that refuses to go away. 

You shudder with another chill. Sun clicks his tongue in concern, the forked end whipping with a snapping worry. 

“You amaze me, truly. Even in the throes of illness, you’re still so stubborn.” He laughs softly, endearing but in a way that almost makes you push yourself out of his steady arms. He doesn’t get to think you’re cute. Not right now, when you feel how sticky your body is and how weak your limbs dangle as he carries you deeper into the cave you’ve made a shelter within.

“Sun,” you softly groan.

“Save your strength to fight the fever, not me.” A soft peck of his scaly mouth touches your temple. You nearly dissolve under his doting command. “You need to rest and do as I say so you can feel better. I don’t like to see you like this.”

You, in a reflective, rebellious instinct, almost try to kick out your feet and find solid ground, but Sun lowers you to the cold, cave floor. You’re seized by another icy torrent of coldness. Hugging your arms, you quietly groan. A soft swell of tears teem over your eyelids. That’s from the sickness, you tell yourself. You’re not crying because Sun and his sweet warmth let you go.

“I’ll be gone for only a moment, lily pad. Hold on for me, okay?” he singsongs.

You want to snatch the heat that had held back the torturous chills. Lifting your heavy eyes, you scour the dimness of the cave, catching sight of Sun’s long body softly slipping over the stone towards the shelves that were chipped into the wall of the cavern. The rich yellow hues of his scales are bright even in the shadows of rocks. The markings along his waist and around his throat are scarlet and vibrant with warning of his venom. You watch the outline of Sun’s defined shoulders move, taking and gathering, collecting a pale pink blossom you can’t currently name.

Pressed against the wall in a sleepy bundle of his scales, Moon watches you, eyes half lidded but attentive. You didn’t hear him enter. His hands open and close, as if to reach for you. He holds back. You frown at his distance but recall his cool scales through the midnight fever, and drowsily, in fitful half-sleep, wait for Sun.

He returns with a skim over the floor. His presence washes over you with hope.

“Don’t cry, my water lily. I’m here,” Sun coaxes with gentle mirth. A crooked finger swipes the leaking liquid from your eyes.

“Not crying,” you grumble, voice croaking like a frog. “Not a water lily.”

“Oh, I’m going to have to disagree and blame your lack of sense on the sickness,” he chirps as if you were simply the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

You pry your eyelids open for a glare. You certainly are not a beautiful and grandiose flower. Not right now in your freezing weakness.

Moon’s hissing laughter echoes. It fills you with another short burst of irate energy that lasts for only the moment of his humor. Sun tuts and shoots Moon a look before gently cradling you. The golden naga guides you upright with a tender hand supporting your back. He rests your head on his shoulder, his underside a shiny, pale cream color, and the gentle heat of his body burns away the chills holding you down. 

He lifts up a small flower, pale pink and pom-pom like on the end of a slender, green stalk.

“Eat this. It’ll make you feel better,” he softly insists.

You eye the flower as if it were a venus flytrap, and you were a particularly weak fly.

“What is it?” you murmur.

“I’ve heard humans call it a sensitive plant, sometimes called touch-me-not. If you had told me you weren’t feeling well early, you could have had this sooner.” The chasiting does not evade your awareness. Sun lowers the plant closer, as if offering a rose instead of medicine. “It will help with your fever and chills.”

“Ugh,” you turn your head ahead. The thought of eating when you have no appetite rears an ugly head within you. “I don’t need it.”

“I disagree strongly, lilypad,” Sun crones in disapproval. “Once you eat it, you’ll start to feel better.”

The soft lift to his tone invades you. You want to squirm, keep turning away from the offered medical plant, but Sun’s warmth surrounds you entirely. Gently, his finger guides your cheek until you face him once more.

“Please, won’t you, for me?” His cornflower blue eyes hold you with his plea. From the corners of his wide mouth, the very tips of fangs glint, but you’re not afraid of his bite. He saved you with his venom, once.

You grimace and force your lips to part. Murmuring praises and coaxes alike in a soft, musical tone, Sun presses the flower head to your mouth until you bite it off, and chew laboriously. It tastes green and dry. He watches you, hawk-like, ensuring you masticate the soft, brittle like petals before swallowing against the vicious dryness of your throat. You gasp after gulping.

His smile grows like a sunbeam at sunrise.

“See? It wasn’t so bad.” He tenderly rubs his mouth against your forehead. “Thank you."

The heat of his affection battles the cold underneath your skin, and when you shiver, he holds you tighter. You fall deeper under his fondness.

"This will pass and you’ll be in tip-top shape again,” he says softly, brimming with heated hope.

Oh, Sun. You want to curse him. You want to tell him that he can’t talk like that, melting your insides and making you nothing but an ooey-gooey mess, but you can’t. You are swept away by his sweet tones. 

No one but Sun unbalances you and catches you in the same motion. He’s disarming. He's the only thing that feels right.

You slump against him in another full-body shudder. Softly humming, Sun begins rearranging your limp form, draping your legs across his deliciously warm tail as the dark end wraps your lower legs. The tightness of his coils used to frighten you before you realized how summery and soft he is. He tucks you gently against his arm, lying down to become your personal pillow.

You are so useless. It’s a miracle you haven’t faded away by now—a miracle of two nagas, no less.

“It’s also called humble flower,” he continues with a soft note. “Perhaps you could take that aspect from it as well, my water lily.”

You moan, unable to offer a rebuttal that you are no flower, but his gentle embrace covers you entirely. His chest thrums lightly with a heartbeat you’ve listened to before. A soft hum fills his throat. He continues pressing his mouth against your cheek, the crook of your neck, and the top of your head as if smothering the clammy effect attempting to surface on your body.

“Soon, you’ll rise and we can stroll through the jungle and find more flowers, more flowers like you, and you’ll feel better. Doesn’t that sound nice?” he chatters endlessly.

You can only snuggle deeper against his chest, against his warm, smooth scales, better than any patch of sunlight, and trust in him.

[that-g3-artist]

Fairy boys

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[smillingcartoonist]

The Third Part of the Night (1971)

Director: Andrzej Zulawski

[cinemphatic]

The Third Part of the Night (1971) dir Andrzej Żuławski

[falsenote]

The Third Part of the Night (1971)