American Cinematographer - November 2017 - 64

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hat happens at the Polish Disco
stays at the Polish Disco."
If you feel reassured by this oftrepeated mantra, then surely you've
entered the Camerimage Festival's
Fourth Dimension: The Polish Disco, a
soul-bending wormhole of time and
space where the naïve commitment to
"one quick drink" launches unsuspecting travelers on an epic journey of
revelry that often lasts till dawn or
beyond. Few who enter this bacchanalian netherworld emerge unaltered after
they pass through its portal, marked by
a pair of large inflatable pylons that
resemble pointy, glowing devil horns.
No tribute to Camerimage would
be complete without a knowing toast to
the Disco. Over the years, the festival
has hosted this infinite-loop after-party
at a variety of different venues. On my
initial trip to Bydgoszcz, back in 2010,
the gale-force festivities were unleashed
in a downstairs banquet space at the
Holiday Inn (a privileged lodging for
filmmakers and other visitors held in
high esteem), but moved elsewhere
after more decorous guests complained
about the Zebrówka-fueled din.
The next venue was a scruffy
nightspot called Club One, conveniently located just a short stumble from
the Pod Orlem hotel. Club One had a
delightfully seedy feel, with dim,
Stygian passageways leading to and
from a circular dance floor where
onlookers could watch cinematography
legends bust a move with fellow filmmakers, internationally famous actors,
Polish models, wide-eyed students, and
a rogue's gallery of local characters who
would look right at home in Suave Ben's
apartment from Blue Velvet. A long bar
led from the dance floor to a "VIP
lounge" hosted by festival honcho
Marek Zydowicz, whose eminence lent
the space an exclusivity envied by
anyone who was denied entry by one of
the club's hulking Polish door guards.
It was at Club One that I once
spotted an Academy Award-winning

November 2017

Polish-Disco Fever
ASC member loitering on the periphery of the packed dance floor, soaking
up the manic vibe as I wearily headed
for the exit - finally! - at 7 in the
morning. The following dialogue
ensued:
Me: "You leavin' anytime soon?"
ASC Icon: "I don't get to do this
kind of thing too much anymore, so I
think I'm gonna stick around. I'm
enjoying it."
Me: "I know what you're saying
- there's some serious Saturday Night
Fever stuff happening on the floor. I
don't think anyone would mistake our
Society guys for Tony Manero,
though."
Icon (laughing): "Is anyone still
back there in Marek's VIP lounge?"
Me: "Yup, but it's getting a little
nuts. A pair of Russian gaffers are armwrestling, and everyone else is on their
fifth round of shots. You're safer out
here, trust me."
Later that evening, I ran into the
Icon again at one of the nightly dinners
hosted by various industry companies.
"Hey, what time did you finally leave
the Disco?" I asked, genuinely curious.
His unabashed reply: "Oh, I dunno ...
maybe 10 or 11 a.m. No regrets!"
The Icon's wife, a renowned
documentary filmmaker, captured the
Polish Disco equivalent of a Bigfoot or
Nessie photo when she snapped a rare
shot of yours truly - a lifelong chorophobic - demonstrating my own dire
lack of "Le Freak" after being dragged
onto the Club One dance floor by
Australian cinematographer Velinda
Wardell, ACS. You haven't truly lived
until you've jumped into a scrum of
world-class directors of photography
going completely bonkers to the wallshaking strains of DJ Snake and Lil
Jon's "Turn Down for What." (The
song's music video, shot by Larkin
Seiple, earned the Golden Frog for Best
Music Video in 2014.)

American Cinematographer

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For the past two years, the Polish
Disco has been situated at the Savoy, a
neon-infused, '80s-style nightclub
straight out of Scarface. In short order,
the Savoy has cemented its reputation
as a scene where Tony Montana would
feel right at home. The hub of the
action is a Vodka Platform hosted by a
prominent talent agency, where perks
include bottomless bottle service and
the chance to receive invaluable career
advice from whirling-dervish dance
partners. Last year, one exuberant but
incautious carouser tumbled headlong
off the Platform and pitched forward
five feet, flat onto his face. Fortunately,
the hapless gent's rubbery resilience
helped him avoid plastic surgery.
Other incidents I've witnessed
include a pair of cinematographers
engaging in a Dance-Off to the Death
that left one with permanent scars on
his arm; a burly Polish local in a
skintight, powder-blue leisure suit
doing an uncanny impersonation of the
head-bobbing Butabi brothers from A
Night at the Roxbury; and a brief but
intense wrestling match in the coatcheck line, where lifelong friendships
can be forged amid the occasional scuffle. (Mere minutes after this donnybrook, I saw the former combatants
clinking vodka-and-apple-juice cocktails at the bar.)
Lunacy aside, the importance of
the Disco to the social fabric of
Camerimage cannot be understated. Its
schmoozers and minglers range from
Oscar winners to Bydgoszcz locals and
students from the National Film
School in Lód´
z. If you're seeking an
informed conversation about cinematography, you can certainly have one
if you're willing to shout at top volume
over a Polish deejay's beats; if your goal
is to find a mentor, or merely cadge an
autograph, there are few better places to
make it happen. Na zdrowie!
- Stephen Pizzello

American Cinematographer - November 2017

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