The Law and the Fist, a fierce Polish drama released in 1964, was directed by Jerzy Hoffman and Edward Skórzewski, who worked as a team from 1955 until 1965, when Hoffman began a solo career and Skórzewski moved on to other things. Starting out in documentaries, like most Polish filmmakers of their generation, they made an immediate impact in 1956 with their second production, Attention, Hooligans, which treated controversial topics like alcoholism and juvenile crime. It inspired a groundbreaking series of "black documentaries" that contested the communist propaganda machine and the arbitrary rules of socialist realism by revealing uncomfortable truths about Polish society.

When artists are hobbled by state censorship, as Polish filmmakers were in that era, they often choose to communicate their messages indirectly, weaving controversial ideas into fictional stories. This is what Hoffman and Skórzewski do in The Law and the Fist, a genre-bender that's one part thriller, one part war movie, about five parts western, and at least ten parts allegory about the tensions between private gain and public good in Eastern Europe after the Nazi occupation had run its course.

The film begins with shots of displaced Poles returning to their homes in the wake of World War II, visibly ravaged by the terrors and torments they've undergone. Among them is the story's hero, Andrzej Kenig, recently sprung from a Nazi concentration camp and eager to find work so he can regain the comforts of life-including his first priority, which is buying a new pair of trousers to repair the raggedy pants he's been wearing for too long. After being turned down for employment by the government, he meets a fellow concentration-camp evacuee who's connected with the local power broker. Before long Kenig has a job, thanks to his new acquaintance and to the fact that he knows how to drive. His assignment is to convey a small group of workers to a rural village and then labor alongside them as they fix up the place so its inhabitants can return.

Kenig and the rest of the crew, headed by a medical doctor with experience in these matters, arrive in the town on schedule. There they meet the only people currently living in the all-but-deserted place, a handful of women who've been supporting themselves by any means necessary. The men start bargaining for a bit of fun, but ominous reminders of the Nazis' recent rule make them realize they'd better get down to the business they came for. Then menacing things start happening. A worker finds a trove of Polish artworks hidden away by the Germans and wants to keep them as his personal loot; and worse yet, the seemingly well-intentioned doctor secretly kills an innocent soldier who's come to help the men with their project. Fearing that he's stumbled on some kind of sinister conspiracy, Kenig tries to contact the police, only to find that telephone service is almost nonexistent. He'll have to take his own stand against the mysterious villains, vanquishing them without bringing harm to his good comrades and the important work they came there to do.

Hoffman and Skórzewski signal their strong affection for the western genre from the very beginning of the film, when Kenig shows his stuff by rescuing a helpless woman from a group of roughnecks amid the chaos of the refugee influx. Western overtones grow even stronger when the workers get to the broken-down village, which resembles any number of outlaw-plagued communities in low-budget horse operas. No horses are present, of course, but the ghost-town atmosphere is unmistakable, especially when showdowns and shootouts start happening in the depopulated buildings and deserted streets. There's also a hint of Casablanca in Kenig's character, a laconic loner who just wants to be left alone to live his life-until the evils of injustice grow so blatant that he reveals his deep-down decency by risking life and limb to make sure the good guys prevail.

The Law and the Fist, titled Prawo i piesc in Polish, was made with conspicuously modest means, but Hoffman and Skórzewski make up for their bare-bones sets and costumes by showcasing Jerzy Lipman's imaginative camerawork and eliciting solid performances in most of the leading roles. Gustaw Holoubek is well cast as Kenig, projecting a sense of inward confidence without resorting to ostentatious gestures or expressions. Jerzy Przybylski is equally good as the physician, and the women of the town are all nicely played. Another enhancement is the spare but evocative music by Krzysztof Komeda, who has scored a number of Roman Polanski's films. Ranging from jazziness to moodiness, it lends the movie a touch of welcome panache.

The picture's DVD edition, from Polart Distribution, has almost nothing in the way of extras-just a scene-selection menu, optional English subtitles, and a small number of filmographies. But this shouldn't deter international movie buffs who want a rare glimpse of postwar Polish cinema by two of the period's boldest directors.

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by David Sterritt