CHRONOPOLIS. A Polish-French science fiction animation

The Polish school of animation is not just about Borowczyk, Lenica, Antoniszczak, Rybczyński, and Dumała. It also includes Piotr Kamler, a somewhat forgotten creator who, over forty years ago, made one of the most astonishing animated films in this part of the world – Chronopolis.

“There is insufficient evidence for the nonexistence of Chronopolis. On the contrary, dreams and manuscripts agree that the city’s history is the history of eternity and desire. Composing time is the only pleasurable occupation of the city’s dignified and emotionless inhabitants. Despite the monotony and immortality, they remain in hope of a momentous event of great importance, which is to occur during an encounter with a human. That anticipated moment is now approaching,”—these words open Chronopolis. No more words follow; instead, the film unfolds as a visual story about a colossal sky city on an alien planet, where beings weary of eternal life manipulate the matter of time, play with electricity and elementary particles, and create bizarre, extraordinary objects to stave off monotony and boredom. Meanwhile, a human expedition approaches Chronopolis. The visit of mortals could disrupt the city’s balance.

Piotr Kamler (born 1936) studied at the Academy of Fine Arts in Warsaw and Paris. In 1959, he created the film City in Poland before moving to France on a scholarship, where he collaborated with the Service de la Recherche de l’ORTF, headed by composer Pierre Schaeffer. During that period, Kamler created numerous animated films inspired by musique concrète and accompanied by soundtracks from experimental composers such as Beatriz Ferreyra, Iannis Xenakis, Bernard Parmegiani, François Bayle, and Ivo Malec. His works included Lines and Points (1961), Continu-discontinu (1961), The Green Planet (1966), Elephant’s Leg (1968), The Hole (1969), Sweet Disaster (1970), and The Spare Heart (1973). As Kamler explained, “The essence of animation, of dabbling in this medium, is creating time,” and his goal was to “organize, in a completely physical, manual way, motion and duration.” Chronopolis, Kamler’s only feature-length film, fully develops this concept.

Thanks to a grant from the Institut National de l’Audiovisuel in Paris and the Centre National du Cinéma, Kamler was able to create a film now regarded as his magnum opus. The work on Chronopolis took five years (1977–1982). Kamler wrote the script, designed the sets, built character models, executed most of the special effects, shot the film using a 1920s camera, and brought the world to life with stop-motion animation—without computers or digital recording. “What differentiates animated film from a ‘normal’ film is the opportunity to create complete fiction. Reality must be entirely manufactured from beginning to end. I create images that have as little chance as possible of existing in actual reality. […] What’s important is that it’s a wholly unique, one-time world over which I can have complete control, consciously determining color, form, its duration, direction of movement, and rhythm,” [1] Kamler explained in an interview with Film.

It’s impossible to disagree with the director: the world depicted in Chronopolis is truly exceptional, born from a poetic vision combining the grandeur of science fiction with an aesthetic reminiscent of ancient Egyptian and Mesopotamian art. This aligns with Kamler’s belief that “an [animation] director may trust not simple logic but poetry and imagination” [2]. The immense effort is visible in every frame of the nearly hour-long film, which features hypnotic, abstract, yet precisely rhythmic sequences of the mysterious experiments and rituals of the city’s inhabitants. The rhythm is defined both by Kamler’s visuals and by Luc Ferrari’s music. Critics have occasionally accused the director of prioritizing form over content, claiming his films’ narratives merely served as excuses for aesthetic experiments. Today, such criticism seems unfair and misplaced—Kamler’s form is his content, and Chronopolis is perhaps the most definitive proof of this.

[1] T. Sobolewski, Leaving the Microcosm, Film No. 28 (180), July 11, 1976, p. 16.
[2] Author unknown, On Experimentation in Animated Film, Film No. 31 (1182), August 1, 1971, p. 2.