It’s fair to say Krzysztof Kieslowski’s The Double Life of Veronique, which recently received the glorious Criterion Collection treatment, walks tenuously down a thin, squiggly line separating celestial poignancy from frustrating ridiculousness. This, of course, is not considering the non-sequitur piss-of-an-appearance from a midget lawyer. This, rather, is considering the plot, which involves two metaphysically, superficially, and inextricably linked women, Weronika and Veronique, both played by Iréne Jacob. Here’s the deal. Weronika sings in a choir, Veronique plays the piano. Weronika is ambitious, Veronique demure. Weronika cannot connect with the familiar. Veronique cannot connect with the unfamiliar. And so on.

At first glance, perhaps first watch, we formulate assumptions about this film, unconfidently. It could be an exhibition of the metaphysically intertwined nature of human existence, though it never seems comfortable with the complexity of this assessment. Or it could be a simple story about the disparity in decisions that two doppelgangers make, though it seems too pensive to attract such facileness.

Early in the film, the two women cross paths and immediately thereafter, set off on two different paths, one to death, the other to life. However, the actual cinematic handoff occurs in one of the most brilliantly conceived, brilliantly shot, and brilliantly composed scenes of ‘90s cinema. The scene takes place during an orchestra and choir performance, with Weronika, a soprano, as the lead soloist. The piece played is “Concerto in E-Minor,” which was composed by Zbigniew Preisner, with the lyrics of Dante sung in Old Italian. This means, at least to me, close to nothing. (Kieslowski stated that the lyrics have no bearing on the story and that they were simply constructs for Preisner to arrange the piece around.)

Fade in, slowly, lugubriously. This is a lament. This is a human facing down the great stygian inevitability, despite the evident will to live, hanging weakly on her face. This is a woman singing her own requiem. Listen. A recorder begins a short, cautious soliloquy, sounding like a eulogistic siren, making a few smooth curlicue sounds before an inauspicious breeze begins to bristle in the background. There is another, slightly deeper-voiced mezzo-soprano, with less range, who sings to the audience, ostensibly an introduction to the soon-to-be deceased. Preisner calls on the plangent peal of a bell to segue into Weronika’s powerful and sad solo.

Her voice rises through her thin frame. The orchestra begins to play and the other woman joins in, smiling demonically at Weronika. This is a battle and I know the outcome, the woman seems to say. Together, their duet of sorts is strained and tonally competitive. The other woman keeps up with Weronika while still smiling, with a baiting inflection. The woman quits and the conductor’s dour look segues into Weronika’s smooth humming, an even-tempered lilt, which lingers mellifluously and then jumps into a more frantic, more strained, high-pitched cadence. The choir kicks in, with Weronika’s voice surmounting their attack, crescendoing and sustaining, to the conductor’s wrinkled eyebrows’ surprise. Weronika clutches her chest and stops.

An enfilade of violins blasts through the even-tempered hum of the choir. The conductor, as if surprised this has lasted as long as it has, signals abstractly to Weronika, who sings a plaintive melody, textured like a final statement of sorts. Impetuously, Weronika is lured into higher and higher depths by the choir. However, she seems to be winning, her voice living, surmounting death’s minion’s onslaught. The conductor is in awe.

But she cannot keep up. The choir rockets higher like the sirens of hell and the orchestra rises like the gales of Cocyton, and it’s all too obvious that this is the end. But for a moment, victory takes the sound of the dying woman’s voice and for a moment, time freezes at this incredible apex of sound, as a slow tear hangs in the corner of Weronika’s eye. And then she drops. There’s a thud and then there’s silence. The prosaic pluck of a harp occupies the empty space.

The film version of “Concerto in E-Minor” is three-and-a-half-minutes long and the soundtrack version runs for five minutes. Missed in the film, is small but substantial-to-the-music’s-story conclusion to the piece. Sans visuals, the soundtrack version features one soloist soprano throughout, though it’s important to note that this voice restrains itself in this final part, collaborating with rather than competing against the choir and the orchestra. In this, we find something integral to the film’s story. The sounds are less ominous. Together, they evince a certain sadness about their participation in the previous events. Together, they finish univocally.

Preisner arranges the piece like a battle scene. There are mini victories and mini defeats, and an ultimate outcome. The simplicity of his composition calls attention to the story taking place in the music. Coupled with the visuals, it feels like Weronika’s conception of her own death. Preisner allows her cry to be heard but also makes sure she’s overwhelmed and ultimately surmounted. It’s an altogether quick and viscerally tense piece that follows a simple long-rise-short-fall pattern, evoking a crushing sense of futility without being too overt. And there seems to be meaning. Or at least purpose. Nonetheless, if a great cinematic sequence and a great score could make me feel this way, I’m not sure I need a meaning or purpose.

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