THE IN-LAWS. Polish Cinema of Escalation

Scene One of The In-Laws. A jazzy, rhythmic drumbeat builds the energy of the unfolding chaos. The camera glides through the narrow, cramped spaces of a restaurant palace—first hidden behind the back of a man (Marcin Dorociński), then shifting to capture the profile of a woman (Maja Ostaszewska), before finally, smoothly, and gracefully framing them together. A heated argument ensues—not a serious quarrel, but an ironic, desperate exchange born from an unexpected life twist that demands a plan and a united front. The issue? Money. The wedding they funded for their son turns out not to be preceded by an actual marriage—an altar-side dispute between the young couple leads to the ceremony being called off.

But the reception is paid for, and quite generously at that. Family members from afar are already on their way to the promised celebration. The camera briefly drifts away, capturing in a stylish flow the anxious master of ceremonies, the band setting up on stage, the bewildered chefs, and the waitstaff, unsure whether preparing the soup is even necessary or if the entire feast is now pointless. Finally, it returns to the couple, overwhelmed by this organizational disaster, maintaining a single continuous shot that stretches over the next pressure-laden minutes. If one instinctively imagines this sequence in the style of Iñárritu’s Birdman, that intuition is spot on—both in its execution and in its escalating, physically discomforting atmosphere of inescapable tension. It also mirrors the way human flaws gradually surface, initially hidden beneath elegant suits and polite social conventions.

Director Jakub Michalczuk lays bare the illusion of human interactions from the film’s very first lines. Whether in Maja Ostaszewska’s panicked monologues over the phone—lamenting her poor son’s fate before immediately criticizing his irresponsibility and secretly delighting in his failure—or in the sympathetic nods to the would-be in-laws (Izabela Kuna and Adam Woronowicz), whom she had mocked moments earlier as provincial social climbers. The meeting of these families sets the stage for an escalation fueled by unspoken insecurities and simmering resentments. It also disrupts the film’s visual rhythm: what starts as fluid, uninterrupted camerawork abruptly gives way to cuts—just as the characters themselves begin to cut each other down. Because, as Polish cinema has long taught us, alcohol-fueled weddings rarely end well.

Yet, The In-Laws (Teściowie) is far from the bleak social satire of Smarzowski’s The Wedding. It does not lampoon national habits through exaggerated jokes about Poles, nor is it a film about the loss of control due to alcohol. Rather, it’s about the desperate attempts to maintain control. It does not invoke Wyspiański, nor does it transform the wedding into a grand metaphor for class struggle on a national scale. Michalczuk has neither the ambition nor the need for such an approach—his modern social tensions are contained within the dynamics of the four central characters, and that is more than enough to drive his tightly paced debut forward. The film’s conflicts unfold not just along the usual axes—city vs. countryside, wealth vs. modesty—but also between atheism and faith, modernity and tradition, pretension and sincerity. On a personal level, the characters themselves embody clashing temperaments: Dorociński plays a stone-faced businessman who sidelines his wife, Ostaszewska portrays a chatty diva starved for attention and affection, Kuna exudes a volatile mix of Russian nobility and Bride of Frankenstein, while Woronowicz, as her subdued husband, remains conciliatory and ashamed. The story may be woven with broad strokes—perhaps too broad—but Michalczuk deserves credit for allowing it to unfold without taking sides, avoiding directorial condescension.

As the resentful war of words escalates, all prior social niceties dissolve. Actions, gestures, and even deep-seated emotions are revealed to be performative—a shield one moment, a weapon the next. Structurally, The In-Laws resembles a mechanical bull, throwing its characters between fleeting triumphs and humiliating defeats, before ultimately tossing them all into the abyss of inevitable (self-)destruction. The wedding setting is symbolic—not just a celebration of familial unity but, in this case, its disintegration into ever-narrowing divisions of us vs. them.

Interestingly, despite its sharp satire, the film’s rare moments of emotional clarity land with surprising authenticity. Even in its most ironic exchanges, accusations cut deep, carrying genuine emotional weight. Unlike its characters, Michalczuk knows when to ease off the gas, allowing the impact of a single word too many to resonate. The consequences snowball—whether reopening old wounds or inflicting fresh ones, both verbal and physical. Take, for instance, the spectacular, almost supernatural moment when Maja Ostaszewska’s character delivers a right hook, sending Izabela Kuna’s character flying several meters backward. A purely comedic scene, yet one that carries hidden meaning. The sheer force of the punch shocks everyone—just as every verbal blow in The In-Laws does. It shocks them not only in its brutality but in the mere fact that these grievances, long repressed, are finally being spoken aloud. It disrupts the unspoken social contract that demands polite smiles and willful ignorance of underlying pain.

Yet this newfound honesty does not lead to redemption. Instead, it plunges the characters deeper into their mutual destruction, set to the backdrop of tacky pop hits and a wedding train rolling along its tracks. And who’s conducting this train? Poland—not united, but always ours and yours.